In the Midst of a Dream World
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.
1. Prologue

Author's Notes

I thought I'd finally get around to starting a multi-chaptered Fullmetal Alchemist fic, seeing as my usual Digimon fics have me a little dampened lately. But it's my first one, so hopefully I've got the technicalities and the characters correct.

Just a brief technical note, for senses drowning, it is first taste, then feeling, then smelling, then seeing, then finally hearing. It's rather fascinating when one things about it; he could have heard the gunshot but not felt it, or the pain…

Okay, Edward is eighteen. Alfons is seventeen. I actually didn't know that. Thanks Bob'sCookie.

Enjoy, and please tell me what you think. I know it's not much yet, but I can pretty safely promise it'll get better.

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><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H & Roy M

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><p><span>Prologue<span>

When he lowered the final leaver, there was a final sense of accomplishment. He was somewhat sad to see Edward go, but it was a different sort of sadness than that he had struggled with for the years the other had spent with him. He was sure that Edward understood, that somewhere in his heart he had, perhaps, _always_ understood that they, and their entire world, was more than just a dream he was living through. The distance he put between himself and others sometimes suggested otherwise. It could have been a defence mechanism though. What didn't touch your heart couldn't hurt it.

In some ways _he_, Alfons, understood as well. He had never really believed the other's stories about the "other side" as he called it, until he saw inexplicable proof, the massive hole opening up above them…but it didn't really matter whether _he_ believed it or not. Germany was his home, and he was going to die in Germany, succumbing to the sickness that had been born and bred from his love for rockets and science; the fumes the fuels exhibited coupled with the pollution of the age had taken its toll on his lungs. Or so he had thought ever since the Doctor had dropped the bombshell. There had been no avoiding it, no letting it stew in fresh air and wild expanse. Not in the condition Germany was in. He could have left, but he made his choice by staying put and chasing the scientific dream that had finally come to life. He hadn't really cared what was out there in the galaxy. That was Edward's fascination. He just wanted to realise his dream and prove his country's scientific worth. He just wanted to build rockets.

Speaking of, the eighteen year old was pounding on the windows even as the rocket began to rise. Luckily, they'd taken the force of the aircraft, wind-power and atmospheric pressure into account and ordered the glass accordingly. Whatever he was screaming, the other couldn't make it out over the roar of the engine and the machinery surrounding them.

Far above, there was a glimmer of yellow light. More than a glimmer actually; from his view it looked like a perfect square, shimmering and shining like the sun. It reminded him of the story of Icarus, and the moral it taught. How those who got too close to the sun got burnt.

Somehow, he didn't think that would stop Edward. Edward, who in his manner and the trouble he managed to attract, resembled the personification of that giant ball of flame. But it wasn't as intense. Unlike the sun which caused his eyes to water and blur if he stared too long at it, the yellow square, the Gate Edward had always talked about, ticked at the edge of his peripheral vision as Edward and the one-seater rocket he was seated in became just that little bit smaller.

He would be able to watch both their dreams be fulfilled. Edward return home, to his brother, and him the rocket he had always wanted to build and watch in action…

His hearing drowned. His vision blurred. It suddenly felt like something punched through his chest, but he was still staring upwards, at Edward, who had become one of his closest friends despite all that had stood between them, and at the yellow, no, _golden_ hue that he was heading towards as the rocket picked up enough speed to punch through the pressure barrier. The smile seemed permanently edged on his face as the rocket disappeared into a blur of gentle gold, a melting medal more than a moulting flame. It drowned out everything, so he didn't notice the hole through his heart, or the said organ thumping frantically to make up for the gap in its function and failing. He didn't notice the blood seeping out and staining his shirt. And even if he had, it was highly unlikely he would have cared all too much. After all, he had been dying anyway. Slowly. Painfully. Better for it to be quick and painless.

He realised that much, in a brief moment of clarity that punched through the yellow haze. He had heard the gun go off. He had heard the shout.

But he didn't feel himself fall backwards. The golden blanket still consumed his vision. It seemed to almost bathe him in its brilliance; it was certainly expanding, coming closer to him…

As the yellow started to fade into white, he could swear he saw someone smiling at him. Or maybe it was his own smile being reflected. The smile of a dying man who had hit his prime and then toppled straight off the mountain peak.

It was almost like falling asleep after a hard day's work.


	2. Upheaving the Rubble

Author's Notes

Some technical stuff. When you die in the Fullmetal Alchemist world, your soul passes through the Gate. With the Gate open, it's possible to pass through like how Hohenheim and Envy did, body and soul. So it should also be able to work the other way…right? Alfons was shot "dead" while the Gate was open, so he _could_ wind up on the other side of the Gate, just the ending would be slightly alternate. After all, Alphonse vanishes from the other world, the alchemy world, so there is a space for him. The technicalities will be explored in due course. It's no fun revealing everything at once, but that is the basic premises for this fic. Of course, that does require some tweaking so that's why I say it's slightly AU.

I'm just assuming the distance between Resembool and Central is 2 days by train, and between Liore and Resembool is less than a day.

I'll explain the events that happened in the three years between 2003 anime and CoS gradually. If I do start my other fic, Assassination, before finishing this one, note that while it similarly covers those three years, the two are actually separate fics and are in no way continuities of each other. It may read like that (once I start it), but it isn't.

From the 2009 anime, Roy obviously knows conventional alchemy as well as his usual fire alchemy. So I'm carrying that over and say he knows it here too. Everyone should know basics before specialising. That's how it works with uni courses.

You can also see parts of the main side-plot emerging here. Anyone want to take a crack at it?

Lastly, thank you to all of you who read the prologue and took your time to give me your views. This chapter is for you all. Enjoy.

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><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H & Roy M

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><p><span>Chapter 1<span>

Upheaving the Rubble

The civilians in Central were blissfully ignorant. In fact, a handful of them died that way. A group of children that had been playing inside crushed to death as the building collapsed over their heads. Some adults trying to clean up the mess the tremor that had struck the centre and east of Amestris almost simultaneously a three-day ago buried under the rubble they had been attempting to clean up. Families loitering on the streets, going about their business as per normal, only to find the ground they stood on suddenly give way and send them through the cracks. Others wandering on the streets shot without any warning before onlookers became aware that war and destruction were descending upon themand attempted to flee for cover…too late for some. Shot in the crossfire as the mysterious suits of armour rose to the surface and launched an attack that was soon met with a return-fire as bullets rained from the sky.

Others locked themselves in their homes, blabbing about evil omens and rising demons and wondering as to the status of the military. Some of them had been strong supporters of the military centralised Government and frowned upon the assembly that had taken its place. Before the coup de tat led by Colonel Mustang and his team, Central had been impenetrable fortress. Those who'd never had a part of the wars that radiated out of their country where shocked and terrified, reminiscent of little children cowering under the bed in a thunderstorm. It was ironic that the country's centre had been so far away from war. The outskirt towns such as Ishbal and Liore, the Northern Wall of Briggs that divided the land from Drachman territory, and even villages that had the misfortune of being near to one of them, such as Resembool which was near in distance or the slums which were near in another sense, had seen and felt far more war than them. Even the ravaging of headquarters as the military split into two fractions had not affected them, being localised to Central Command and the Fuhrer's personal residence. What had affected them though was the divide.

There were others who preferred the new government, the assembly that gave the military less than total power and the people a voice. It lessened the wars on their borders. It expanded the trade; for the first time in almost a hundred years they had such a flow between their countries. Rich garments and art masterpieces from Xing. Machines and coarser garments from Drachma. Raw materials from Aerugo. Many a things from the culturally diverse Creta who had similarly deassembled and reassembled their government after the peace treaty came into effect. All that and more. They abolished weapons trade however, after all that had happened in Ishbal.

The new peace felt good after the wars that had loomed above them. Not all the men of Central remained there. Many travelled, studied or worked in other places. Not all of them were budding State Alchemists studying day in and day out for the alchemy exam that hadn't changed its tradition of failing all but one or two in a year. The division in the military had been broken down; no longer were they tools for war, but their talents were of use nonetheless.

But in times of danger, the first place they all looked to the leaders of their country, and to the military. Those not so fantastical to believe in crawling undead demons rising from the ground and dropping from the sky wonderedin the midst of it cracking and unearthing a mount of earth and debris. Where had the invasion come from? How, at the exact same time a tremor had struck? Was it natural…or some other sort of power? Machine? Alchemy? Was war and destruction upon them? Why wasn't the military defending them?

It didn't take long for their ears to be met by the sounds of machine-guns blasting, and finally the clacking of metal moved away, colligating in the grounds in front of Central Command HQ. More blasts and shockwaves rocked them, but they closed their eyes and prayed.

It took fifteen or twenty minutes, half an hour at most before silence finally resonated, but it felt like an age. Men dropped their guards and loosened their holds on their weapons, thankful even if they would deny it in years to come, that they had no active role to play in the siege. Little children crawled out of the table and into their mother's laps. The women themselves shook, wondering if the earth would shake again and throw them off its surface. Wondering of the demons that had been shouted off in the streets would rise again and devour them…or where they at last safe.

But when the braver or more foolish of them ventured into the streets, they saw buildings entirely caved and demolished, worse the further they were. Roads cracked and split. Blood seeping out from beneath slabs. Armours burnt and half-melted lying on the streets closest to the centre, already starting to smell of rotting and singed flesh, spread in a radial effect and apparently accompanying their suddenly derelict city. And spread amongst it all, men in the military blue uniforms attempting to formulate a sort of clean-up plan.

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><p>The buildings that surrounded the crater were the worst off, save HQ itself for the simple reason that it had been built with force of arms in mind. Many had thought it would collapse when the two earthquakes hit, but while it had shook hard enough to force the expulsion of the contents of some weaker stomachs on the higher levels, the structure was mostly standing once the last armour collapsed in a heap and the floating ship in the sky crashed where the market had once stood. The explosions that had rained from the ship had blasted a few chunks off the top and sides, but all in all the building didn't look like it would collapse on its weight.<p>

The rest of the buildings however were a different story. Where the ground had burst open and caved upon itself, all that was left of the proud houses and businesses that had once stood were slabs of wood, concrete and crushed ornaments. Blood soaked under some of them, crushed bodies long robbed of life. There was part of a small arm lying limp, the rest covered by a large concrete chunk. Blood trickled down her arm, congealing at her closed fists which even now were clutching a yellow teddy-bear that was slowly staining a crusted red.

That red was reflected in the sky, as the last blaze that had lit it up had persisted an abnormally long time. Minutes, as opposed to the milliseconds it should have taken the light to vanish after it had exhausted its fuel and oxygen supply. But the temporarily restored Brigadier General Roy Mustang, making his way back to ground with the steps he had alchemically built from the material broken from one of the ships, had reckoned without the nature of the Gate, a conundrum which apparently no-one fully understood, except perhaps Edward Elric. But he had come and gone like the hurricane he was, and this time his dear little brother had gone with him.

He turned away from the body and surveyed the rest of the city. The steps towering ten metres above in the sky looked almost humorously out of place amidst the destruction, but it was only its usefulness as transmutable material that kept him from snapping his fingers and getting rid of the once abomination that had been partially responsible for so many lives.

His left eye still saw the crushed little girl, her blood splattered on her precious stuffed animal. It reminded him of the Rockbells, collapsed in the living room of their apartment and hand weakly reaching out to caress the picture of their only daughter, glass and gloss being the only thing they could give their farewell too as their life slipped away. A frightened Ishbalan child, hands shaking as he held the rifle as a defence and comforting item as much as a weapon, terrified, hesitating to fire as his fingers froze in a poise to snap. Masses of people, waving guns and pitchforks and anything they could get their hands on, just trying to defend their country as a single snap of his pristine white gloves destroyed it and them with the help of a little red stone on his middle finger, the one that symbolised strength.

His other eye saw soldiers splitting up area and function. Some were dragging carcases into a heap in front of Central Command. Others, mostly alchemists and under the direction of Lieutenant Colonel Alex Louis Armstrong, were working on fixing those houses currently standing on their feet but in danger of collapse. The ones that had already fallen were, for the time being, left alone except for Black Hayate sniffing about for signs of life and First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye watching them both from afar.

His onyx right eye met her amber pair a moment. Their last meeting almost three years ago, full of anger, depression and guilt, burnt in both their minds. She looked at the ranking stars on his coat, in part the source of their argument. In the midst of the battle her normally stoic expression had cracked with glistening tears as her heels had snapped together and her right arm had raised in a salute. Slowly, she repeated her actions, but there was no overwhelming relief, no joy. Her amber eyes looked straight into his soul until he returned the salute and she dropped her hand.

Roy lowered his hand, averting his gaze to the stars that symbolised his rank, lifting one hand to touch the newest one, one he knew full well he hadn't received on legitimate terms and as such did not deserve. He had, in the aftermath of the coup de tat and the supposed defection of Fuhrer President King Bradley, been in no condition to take command of Central, and even if he had been, he was at least two ranks shy of the position. Lieutenant General Grumman, who had aided as much as he dared behind the scenes without damaging his reputation, had sidled into the vacant chair, and as the overthrow had proven to be entirely successful, he suffered no legal ramifications for his actions. He had however, upon his physical recovery, chosen to step down from his position as both a high ranked officer and a State Alchemist. Both his apparent escape from "just" punishment and his surrendering of rank had led to a wave of reaction.

He had stayed with the military however, having nothing else, and had requested to be stationed at a cold remote outpost down South. Riza had wholeheartedly disapproved of his course of action, easily foreseeing the direction in which his thoughts had been heading, and that had led to their less than happy parting.

For a moment, in the heat of battle and unity in defence of their city and their country, she had given him a smile that had read more than perhaps even she realised. But now that was over. It was _all_ over. All that was left was to destroy the Gate and all records of it, so nothing of such a magnitude could ever happen again. It was true that despair would always drive mankind. One day in the future the legend of the Philosopher's stone will resurface. Some poor misguided fool will attempt Human Transmutation. Or perhaps some unfortunate will somehow wonder into the Gate through a tunnel they were yet to find.

But he had given his word.

'Back Hayate,' he ordered, shutting the doors to his soul and giving the Lieutenant a short nod, the woman doing likewise and calling her dog to heel. He raised his right hand, poised to snap as he looked at the entrance Alphonse Elric had described to him. Movement to the side caught his eye, and for a moment he turned and looked into the eyes of Winry Rockbell. Her eyes too held no trace of tears, but instead a calm sort of acceptance. No doubt other emotions would follow in the days to come. She had, after all, lost two of her brothers after getting one back. Sciezka was beside her on both knees, but her gaze was aimed several metres from his feet with her head in a hand, the other propping her up. It looked like a piece of rubble had caught her on the way to the surface.

Winry met his gaze, and now her eyes were beginning to glisten. 'You're going to destroy the Gate,' she said, voice shaking slightly.

Mustang nodded, keeping his face impassive.

She half-smiled. 'Make sure you come back out,' the blonde said softly but half-sternly. 'Edward said the same thing, and he leaves me waiting for three years.'

Winry Rockbell was truly an extraordinary woman.

'Sir.'

He looked at Hawkeye, standing tall, broad shoulders furthering the image of strength and her curved figure emphasising her femininity. Her right hand twitched above her holster, as if she were about to draw it and point it at his head. Any minute now, she'd be ordering him to stop procrastinating and get on with the paperwork piled up at his desk.

He was going to have an awful lot of that to do.

But all she did was lock eyes with him again.

'Make sure you come back out,' she said, mirroring the automail mechanic's words. Her tone gave nothing away, and she turned her gaze away before her eyes could betray her, following Black Hayate as he leapt away in the search for survivors in the rubble.

Riza Hawkeye and Winry Rockbell. Both of them were extraordinary women.

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><p>He repaired the staircase before carefully descending, taking care not to bring the precarious rubble down on top of him. It would have been more prudent to alchemise the debris into a more stable structure. It would have been better to wait until the surface was stable. But this was something that could not wait. The Gate was too precarious a thing to leave opened, and he couldn't be sure whether Edward (and Alphonse, presuming the latter had given his position away or the former had found him) had managed to close the doorway on their end or had been delayed. It wasn't a thing that could be left to chance. It had sucked only half the fused metal-corpses, the monsters that had once been human in the other world. <em>Their<em> world. It had sucked up one ship, save the part Edward had broken off to provide enough alchemic material for a descent.

The vanished city was there in all its glory. Glory as piles of rubble that was, almost unrecognisable. It appeared as though it was those buildings, a city long believed vanished along with its inhabitants, that had stopped the shockwave from obliterating far more.

It wasn't all just earthquake damage. His soldier eyes could pick out evidence of a fight, but the only sign of alchemy was the transmutation circle in the centre, cracks radiating outward from its midpoint. It alone had survived to a reasonable extent.

For a moment, he simply stared at it from where he had stopped halfway down the staircase, half awed at the magnitude of the array. It would have taken him years more before he would have come up with something half as plausible. But that was hundreds of years of research, summarised into a single circle. The other half of him twisted at the suffering such a material thing had brought about. The wayward spirits chasing after lost dreams and the Philosopher's Stone. The chess pieces moving as the Homunculi played their board.

Those thoughts swirled a moment, and then he raised his right hand, poised to snap-

-before barking interrupted him, along with a blur of black as what he presumed was Black Hayate leapt down from another entrance, circling a particular pile of stones, wood and tiles.

He could hear Hawkeye's voice from the surface, but her words were indistinct. Black Hayate's bark on the other hand was stubborn. It was the sound he made when he found the object he had been told to seek. He should know; he spent enough time playing with the dog in lieu of doing his paperwork.

He lowered his gloved hand and carefully made his way across the floor, making sure the array was well and truly broken before stepping on it. Towards the opposing edge of the circle but still within its limits, Black Hayate sat down and wagged his tail, tongue poking out and flicking up and down in time with the wag in his tail.

'What is it?'

The dog gave one bark, then ran around, covered in white powder and knocking away tiles and stones. It turned out the white was misleading; almost everything was covered with the dust. From his original position, he hadn't seen anything but white and the transmutation circle coated in black, but up close he could make out something yellow, almost blonde. He slipped the glove off his left hand before brushing the plaster away along with a loose stone, finding it hadn't been a large misshaped stone or surface underneath at all, but a body covered head to toe in white, almost as if he (Roy assumed it was male anyway) had taken a bath in cooking flour.

For a moment he wondered if it was Wrath. He had known the Homunculus had left for Central with Alphonse, thanks to his phone-call to Winry a two-day ago, but he had yet to see him. But common sense told him that could not possibly be the case. Wrath's hair was black, and long, and he was a lot smaller. This boy was about 5'7, provided those were his feet and not more stones.

A little more housekeeping, and he'd managed to uncover the face-down form, the white being brushed off and revealing varying shades of brown, and in the process found his earlier assumption had been wrong on both accounts. Not only was he not possibly Wrath, but it also wasn't a "body" per say.

The flesh was still warm to the touch.

Black Hayate barked again and Roy looked up, finding his gaze locking with that of Riza Hawkeye's for the fifth time that day.


	3. The Two Halves of the Gate

Author's Notes

Some sources say Al's twelve in CoS, others say he's thirteen. I'm inclined to agree with the later, seeing as Ed's eighteen (thanks to Bob'sCookie for pointing that out). This is because Al was originally one year younger than Ed, so his mind should be seventeen. Take four years off that seeing as that's the time his body spent in the Gate, and it's thirteen. Remember that Alfons is seventeen though, so his resemblance to Al_phonse_ isn't immediately recognisable.

I spend a little more time in our side of the Gate, but from my current plan (still in progress), that's the last time it happens.

The mansion belongs to Hausofer. I can't seem to remember whether or not Eckhart shoots Hausofer…I think she does. She definitely kills someone. Let's just go with the assumption she did kill Hausofer. It simplifies things.

This wasn't the chapter I was supposed to post today. But then again, I intended to get this done a while ago but got stuck on the beginning. I hate it when plans go awry. But I think I hate this week more. I've got more tests to do than days to do them. I know, I complain a lot when it comes to tests…but it seriously takes the pressure off. On the bright side, I got this done instead. And it wasn't too bad as far as updates go. It went a tad over a month, and I roughly intended to update this once a month. The reason it takes a little longer is because I've only watched the series once in its entirety, unlike stuff like Digimon that are probably going into double digits. Blame the late discovery.

And a bit heart-felt thank you to everyone who's following this story. Whether that's by reviewing, favouriting, alerting or just plain ol' reading. Thank you guys. :)

And…that's about all I need to say. Enjoy, and don't forget to tell me what you think. Seriously, all you guys keep me up on Cloud Nine.

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><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H & Roy M

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><p><span>Chapter 2<span>

The Two Halves of the Gate

The last thing, or the first thing, he heard was Noah's cry. In the sparse moment between her arms rising up to the ceiling in an almost feverish desperation, he wondered whether or not he was making the correct decision in denying her the place to call her own that she so longed for. A little later he wondered whether or not he even _had_ the right to decide such a thing…but he accepted the bitter reality she had closed her eyes to. That "his" world (he used the term quite tentatively) was just as imperfect as its reflection on the other side of the Gate. That the Gypsy wouldn't be able to find a place there any better than this one without standing upon her own two feet and striving ahead to build one. And he suspected (although he didn't rightly _know_) that the consequence of her passing through the Gate, similarly to how he had initially, would result in the death of her counterpart. A woman the same age as he but mothering a son. A boy he'd shared so much with…but didn't even know the name of.

The world was so large a place. Sometimes, it seemed too large, but the scope it offered was larger still. The possibilities…and he couldn't accept the fact that it _might_ cost someone else's life to give in. Not until there was no other option. And possibly not even then. He'd seen too much blood spilt, little streams collecting into the main river running beneath his feet…

He'd gladly face a woman's wrath knowing that. But it hadn't sounded like a scream of anger…or of despair, the cry that had followed him in the rocket through the Gate.

It had sounded like grief.

And he couldn't understand it, not at all, until he climbed out of what remained of Alfons' pride and Noah raised her tear-streaked face to look at him, clad in her blood-soaked dress.

'Why?' she asked hoarsely, stumbling a little as she made her way towards him. 'Why did you come back?'

'I-' For some reasons, the reasons that had been so clear in his mind fled without ever making it to his lips. He took in the blood. He took in the body lying to the side with wide frenzied eyes frozen in death, the woman who had sought to destroy his world because she had feared the unknown. But really, they all did, didn't they?

There was blood there too. Under her. A little only; fear froze the circulation of blood after all. It was remarkable people didn't die from fear, their heart slowing to a stop as the paralysed particles failed to continue the one-way flow that kept the whole system up and running.

The suits of armour showed no blood. But no doubt they had some in them. Probably clotted into hard black because of the pressure they had punched through to reach the other side. It would explain the black tendrils that wrapped themselves around the baby metal, refusing to come free. It would explain their mindless action, stumbling along like the half-dead, simply shooting, scurrying around in search for warm blood, and shooting again. Almost like animals…but like the homunculi there were humans somewhere in their past. The reason he had brought as many carcases as he could manage along with him. Their families at least deserved that last humane act.

After all, they'd all wanted things. And none of them bad. He'd wanted to return home. His brother had wanted to bring him there, and Wrath for whatever reason had wanted to help. Alfons had wanted to fulfil his dream before his death. Noah had wanted a place to call her own. Eckhart had been trying to summon up the forces to back her political leader through the imminent war, before turning around and trying to destroy the things that brought fear and unrest, thinking she was doing it for the good of her own world. And it could have been, if he could believe himself to be a monster. But if he accepted that, he didn't think he'd be able to continue walking forward. And he didn't think he'd be able to stand that. _Especially_, since the last time he had come close, it had been Rosé who had picked him back up.

'Why?' Noah asked again.

He let a wry smile cross his face. Sometimes it was a hard thing to be able to see a light at the end of a long dark tunnel, or a caterpillar crawling around in a dense forest. Strangely, he hadn't really considered the fact that he had left his home for good, by his own choice (although someone _did_ have to pilot the ship through the portal). In the end, it was purpose that kept him going. Fixing his mistakes. He had spent four years fixing one, and now he had to patch up another.

'Why indeed?' he asked rhetorically.

But someone beat him to the punch.

'He came to destroy the Gate.'

The connotation registered a little earlier than the words itself, and the wry smile diverted itself to the suit of armour that had straightened up to stand beside him.

'How long till the connection fades again?' he wondered, just a hint of sadness touching his tone. He would much rather have not had the impending conversation. Seeing his brother after three years after living with his oh-so-different counterpart only to say goodbye again was almost gut-wrenching. It just made the job coming up all that harder to do.

Then the helmet fell off, and his heart skipped a beat as Alphonse's head, his _baby brother's_ head, popped out of the shell. 'What do you mean brother?' the younger Elric asked, amused?

'Wha-? But-' For perhaps the first time in his life, Edward Elric was struck completely speechless.

'Colonel Mustang will destroy the Gate,' the thirteen year old explained as he tried to claw his way out of his confinement. 'I snuck on after you, then hid in this empty suit so you wouldn't find me.'

The first thing that occurred to him was that some of those armours _would_ be empty.

'I wanted to be with you,' he continued explaining, finally succeeding in clamouring out, red coat pulling free somewhere along the way with a slight tear. 'Those four years we spent together…they were the best times of my life.'

Every one of those words were said with heart-filled emotion.

'So you remember.' Then he half-smiled. 'Equivalent exchange.'

It was Noah's choked half-cry that reminded him of the rest of that situation, and he pivoted in his position, crossing paths with Hughes' shocked expression for a fleeted moment. The gun was still drawn, the barrel smoking. And he, Edward, couldn't help but smile the tiniest amount. He really loved Gracia, to roll over years of prejudice and save the life of a Gypsy girl at the cost of killing a woman he had worked with.

But when his golden eyes met her brown, the smile vanished again. Especially as she held out her bloodied hands. No words passed between the two as the colours merged. Then she lowered them and pointed one at a soldier restrained by two colleagues the pair had worked with.

'He shot him,' she said quietly. 'In the back as he watched his dream take to the skies, complete.'

The young adult sighed heavily. 'So he's dead.' The body could be anywhere. Crushed by the ship. Blown apart by the force they had come down by. Buried somewhere with the others, all faceless, nameless.

'He doesn't regret it. It's the best thing in the world, to see your dream come true.' Slightly teary, Noah clasped her arms to her chest.

Alphonse looked between his brother and the woman who largely resembled Rosé. He refrained from questioning; he could see both of them had lost a friend, but he took a step forward still. He didn't know about the woman in strange clothing, but his brother at least could not stew standing still.

Edward saw the questioning look in his eyes as he turned, but didn't have the heart to tell his brother the truth…or what he theorised to be the truth. Something they both had wanted more than anything else in the world..; he couldn't burden that with what _might_ be the price they payed for it. Not after equivalent exchange had become a concept so dissolved.

Instead, he looked up. At the Gate that stretched across four corners.

It had messed with enough lives. Of course, that was what it _did_, but leaving it there, like that, was too much.

'It'll be a challenge destroying that thing without alchemy,' he mused. Another mistake to fix. Another challenge. At least he could safely assume it wouldn't take a miracle this time.

'Between the two of us,' his brother replied, coming to stand beside him, thankfully an inch or so shorter in height. 'We'll figure it out.'

The yellow pigments mixed and blurred. For an ephemeral moment, the once-Fullmetal Alchemist could swear he saw lips smirking down at him.

* * *

><p>Yellow still majorly consumed his vision when he next came round. For a split second he wondered if God had decided to dye heaven in a golden die, before he blinked and other colours began to come into view. Remarkably, despite the flecks of grey and white dust that littered everything in sight, including the people, there was just a dash more colour than he was used to seeing.<p>

But that wasn't what registered in his mind as he blinked blackly at the blue sky, taking in the outlines of his periphery vision. What he noted were the long cracks running through buildings, the smell of sulphur and other gases in smoke, and the plaster bits covering parts of what he assumed were buildings and roads.

It looked to him like he was lying in a crater in the middle of the latter…with a man wearing military stripes (a Brigadier General if he recalled correctly) hovering above him. There was another in the same sort of uniform, a woman he thought, standing at the edge of the crater with a black dog at her heels.

Behind her were more blue figures running around, and flashes of light. Almost like flash-grenades. And the smell of smoke permeating the air…it was as if he had awoken to a war instead of heaven.

'What's your name?' The voice was male, brisk and commanding. Everything the voice of a man of such a high rank should be.

The dirty-blond opened his mouth to answer…and coughed instead. The images wavered, blurred. The yellow became more pronounced. He felt his mouth fill with the familiar coppery taste. White shapes came into his vision, replacing the colour and enhancing the grey, but he could make nothing out…save a shadowy sort of smile.

For some reason, it gave him the sensation of looking at his reflection in a mirror.

And then he was suddenly choking. Pain flared through his body, unnoticed till then, having dulled away to a slow ache.

There were unfamiliar voices talking to him again, but by then he was directing all his energy into staying conscious. And even that seemed to be failing.

He wondered if he was still in Munich. Had he somehow failed? Had the pressure surface knocked the rocket back and exploded the fuel on board? Or had they passed through and brought a war back?

Because it seemed, as the darkness finally succeeded in blotting out the yellow haze, that he had woken up in the middle of a warzone.

Or perhaps it was hell, for people like him who shoved their dreams to the forefront of their priority list, all because he had been about to die…and he hadn't listened to Edward.

* * *

><p>Wordlessly, Hawkeye came down and helped the Brigadier with his load, and together the two of them managed to navigate the debris and drag the unconscious teen to the surface.<p>

'Is he one of Central's?' Mustang asked, his tone purely professional.

Riza stood up straight, clicking her tongue so Black Hayate sat at her heels.

'Not that I'm aware of,' she responded crisply, before a slight frown played upon her lips. 'He does appear somewhat familiar, but I cannot…' She cut herself off, before ordering a passing soldier to take him to medical as well. The seriously wounded would, from there, be transferred to Central Hospital.

It took a few more moments for the place to clear out, and Hawkeye gave her once-Commanding officer a swift nod before retreating with her loyal dog at her heels.

Mustang raised one gloved hand in salute to her back, before descending down his alchemically craft steps again.

This time, nothing was going to stop him. The circle glared at him, taunted him, even as imperfect and broken as it was. He could make out little shapes. A vase, much like the ones his late mother used to create. A curved sword, his father's weapon of choice.

Those thoughts, at such a time, were dangerous. Before they could come to him again, he raised his right hand and snapped.

* * *

><p>'Are you sure this is a good idea?' Alphonse asked, screwing the last bolt into place. 'Doesn't this place belong to anyone?'<p>

'Sure it does,' Edward replied with a bit of a scowl, his way of showing concentration. 'The guy's dead though.' He kept the emotion out of his tone. That made the story just that much more complicated. 'The government will seize possession of the land, but the place's fair game.'

'Didn't he have any family?' the younger Elric asked. Somehow, he couldn't imagine what that would have been like. If it hadn't been for Ed's memory and the hope of him being alive, and the Rockbells and the Curtises...and even the friends he had made and forgotten over the four years they had spent in search of a way to correct the mistakes of their past, he didn't think he'd be able to press forward. He didn't think he'd _have_ dreams to press on with.

Of course, that might be better in some circumstances. But the world wasn't perfect. That was what made it so beautiful, no matter where one was within it. No matter how derelict their situation was.

'All right,' Dolcetto said, standing back and effectively interrupting the brothers' conversation. 'We're ready to blow this place up.'

The Elrics backed away, and in the process, Edward answered his brother's question.

'No, he had no family.' _Only his dreams of seeing Germany liberated_.

Any other thoughts were drowned out by the blast that shook the ground and rattled their teeth. It seemed somewhat cruel, to destroy the mansion and all they resembled as they had, but like they had burnt their home years before, it would liberate them to follow new paths and new dreams.

* * *

><p>The crater smoked around him. Moisture evaporated into the air. Plaster crumbled into dust. A few stray drops dripped, and unseen to all except herself, a face formed for a fleeting instant before vanishing again.<p>

If anyone _had_ seen however, they would have been shocked at the likeliness to Trisha Elric. As it was, only Black Hayate sensed anything at all, and the moment had passed before a growl escaped his throat and his mistress turned questioningly to him.


	4. The Reality of Dreams

Author's Notes

I planned to get this up on the fifteenth. So I started on the sixteenth. *Eye roll*. I'm normally not that disorganised, but uni decided to heap all its tests on me at the same time so I wound up mis-anticipating how long it would have taken to write up the chapters I intended to complete before this. At least it was within the month this time.

Enjoy.

* * *

><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H& Roy M

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 3<span>

The Reality of Dreams

Alfons Heiderich wasn't an irrational man by any means. Or perhaps the correct term would be adolescent, seeing as he was seventeen years of age after all, and considering his current projection of life's path, unlikely to ever reach his eighteenth. In some ways though, he had already become an adult. After all, both his parents were long since dead. He'd completed his studies as an apprentice under Oberth in Rome and returned to his home country of Germany, renting an apartment and sharing it with a homeless friend, and within a year made more headway in striving towards his ultimate dream than most people made in their lifetime.

His dream hadn't been all that surreal. He'd wanted to build rockets, plain and simple. It had been Oberth's thesis that had inspired him to continue on in rocket science, although he'd been studying mechanics since he was four (from tearing apart a toy magic lantern projector set) and then later helping his father with the car repairs until he died.

Etzel Heiderich was a mechanic, albeit an old one. He'd been born in Germany, but had left the country with his parents as the Franco-Prussian War began to peak. He spend a great deal of his teenage years in London and studied an apprenticeship before following his mother (father having passed away in the grey country) back to a Germany hovering between wars.

There, he had married, and his wife had conceived a beautiful baby before passing away in 1906, barely living long enough for her son to imprint more than a gentle smile into his memories. It was hard for Alfons to cling to sadness; he barely remembered her after all. And his father had done an admirable job raising him, sending him to school once he reached the age of five and teaching various tricks to the trade. They had a house in the countryside up till 1914, where business was steady, even if not blooming. But the countryside had begun to be over-represented and they were one of the first to feel the brunt of ensuring warfare. Etzel, like his own parents before him, predicted the bleakest scenario and send his son off to an old acquaintance in London. He found himself too old to be able to bring himself to follow. An old man, after all, belonged in their home, even if it was for just another minute.

Four years later, Alfons, fourteen years of age, received news of his father's death during and yet disconnected to one of the bloodiest battles to hit Germany whilst in the safety and remoteness of the rural farm. For months after that, as the war began to fade a little, his life seemed even quieter than usual. He hadn't the war to blame. It had come and gone without scratching more than an empty home standing on dying winds. His father had passed on upon his own violation, dying peacefully in bed while fixing cars and trucks and other vehicles to the last. And then a shipment arrived. It had seemed his father had planned everything out, anticipated everything. There wasn't a battered old car in the parcel. There wasn't even a suitcase or box filled with memories. There was just an old toy magic lantern projector set, pulled apart and fit together numerous times (and as he had gotten older, he had attempted to adjust things and improve the device) but functional. His first success, albeit rather limited. He had fared better with the pulley.

He could almost hear his father telling him to follow that dream. To make things. To design, to create…

He hadn't thought of vehicles leaving the ground until he sat in a public lecture with Oberth.

Losing his parents at a young age had made some parts of life rather distant. A far future for one. His mother had been terribly young when she passed on; he had barely known her. His father hadn't died till his adolescence, he hadn't seen the man since he was ten. He'd gone to boarding school during that time, spending the summer vacation at the house of an old man that mostly kept to himself. It was a little lonely, but tolerable. The man had taken in other children too. They talked to each other, but even though there was a racial barrier between them (for some, their countries lay on opposite sides of the battlefield), they managed a rather comfortable life.

Some spoke of escaping. Running off to the city. Looking for adventure. Going to war. Alfons saw that as a poor sacrifice on the parts of others: his parents, grandparents…so he studied instead. He picked up old parts still, tinkering with them, but most of his effort went towards studying so one day he could create something grand. And once he returned to Germany at the end of 1918 as the war concluded with Germany's defeat (or surrender), he pressed on with that dream, finding small but sturdy lodgings in Munich while finishing his education at a local school that stood proudly still, utilising his spare time as an apprentice. The prior experience with his father assisted there.

Maybe it, his dream invention, would take him away, he found himself thinking on occasion. Maybe it would carry him to a place where there was no destruction, no war. But that had been a child's mind thinking. But when Oberth first spoke about his thesis, the other found himself thinking about how it would be like to watch a rocket travel to the moon or the worlds beyond.

By that time, he'd either accepted the fact that there was no escape from things like war and conflict. The first world war had died, but he saw the effects in London city: the smoking areas dilapidated by the zeppelins dropped upon them. He saw the effects in Rome, where he had been accepted as an international student. He finished the year under Oberth's guiding hand, then decided to return back to Germany. His father's efforts, he decided finally, were ultimately futile. Unless every single man restrained from fighting war, there would be war. If things didn't work out in Germany, he'd go elsewhere seeking his fortune. Russia perhaps, presuming hostilities had faded. Or the US. Rocket construction was a field that was very rapidly taking off.

That decision had been made before he met Edward Elric. The first time he had come face to face with the enigma hadn't actually been in Oberth's lecture hall but rather on the common street of Paris. They hadn't spoken, although both had stared at the other for a full minute before the slightly elder of the two had turned his head with an almost forceful jerk and faded back into the crowd. He'd, for a moment, considered going after the other, but a bout of coughing had halted his steps before they had even been made.

It had been persisting for years. He had just shoved it aside and kept going, and although he had been coerced into seeing a doctor in Munich, it hadn't done all that much…except having to put up with bitter tasting pills along with the cough and tightening lungs. It was apparently a consequence of his interest with motors. Working on cars and motors at a young age with his father and then pursuing the interest when he could in London (mostly tinkering with a box on wheels that was, years ago, stamped as a write-off; he'd been rebuilding it from scratch and made a fair bit of progress), and finally the apprenticeship he'd undertaken when back in Germany. It was, apparently, worse than living in the polluted cities, having one's face directly in that smog. It had been so natural though that he'd never noted the fact. Even when he was informed of his deteriorating health, he did not redirect his path.

That apprenticeship completed, he went searching for something else. Someone had recommended Paris at the time. A conference of sorts. Gathering the brightest physicians and mechanics of the age. A new form of transport, something that would one day take them to space and the universe beyond. Something he might be interested in, the other said. He'd even paid for the one way ticket, as his own intentions hadn't been entirely in the other's interest.

Alfons had nothing against that though. Not even his deteriorating lungs would hold him back. A single-mindedness he was only beginning to realise carried him to Rome, and in the general vicinity of the apparent conferences, find an opportunity to further his goal.

His dream had simply become that important. The war had been too far away. Family and friends had been equally distant, though perhaps that was more due to circumstances than anything else. But it was easier when there was something tangible to cling to. That car sitting in the garage of a large mansion, almost ready to roll again but probably doomed to rust or the recycle heap. The apprentice ship. The single public lecture that had opened up new doors; he'd halted the Professor on the way out to question him, and that was the second time he'd come face to face with Edward Elric.

Edward had taken one look of him and smiled almost nostalgically, before the lips thinned into a neutral expression. Then he got into a discussion with Oberth that the younger boy (although they were almost the same height) could only somewhat follow.

Alfons did, of course, get the chance to talk to the Professor, and the passion he apparently exhibited caused the older blonde to raise an eyebrow, before giving the same sort of smile again.

It had been rather unnerving, and when Edward had informed him later it was because he somewhat resembled his brother, Alfons accepted that with some sympathy.

Somehow, the two of them became friends, united as they pursued Oberth's thesis on Liquid Fuel Rockets.

There was another man at the conference. A gentleman called Wernher von Braun who was working with Oberth. He was actually German, and was anticipating a growth of the project and his own thesis upon his return to Munich. He was only too happy to accept two eager and experienced young minds, one in chemistry and physics and the other in mechanics…after a few months of teasing in the issue. So they returned to Munich in 1920, and working almost round the clock with the uprisings unnerving even those who had always been distant from the war, they hastened their progress.

Towards the end of 1921, they launched their first liquid-fuelled rocket at the festival, the contraption reaching a height of 2.2 kilometres. When the offer had been given to build a ship with the same principles except on grand scale, he had been ecstatic. There would be a ship punching through space. There would be his mark left, for only the man in charge would be remembered for launching a rocket that rises a height of 2.2 kilometres…if even him. More likely it would be only Oberth's name that went down in history.

This would be his mark, he decided at that point. His creation, the one he'd headed towards his entire life.

But Edward had thrown up a brick wall, made of spongy prisms and flimsy mortar.

Truth be told, he'd always struggled to understand Edward. For a rather outspoken person he certainly was introverted. He had more knowledge in his head than most people got in a lifetime. His father was one of Munich's most renown Professors, but had disappeared without a trace; Edward hadn't found out until returning to the apartment they had shared to stumble upon the landlord looking for a half-year old rent. He had an artificial arm and leg, designed by the same father, with machinery so complex even the eighteen year old genius failed to understand it, even when Noah had asked, almost a year later. And then there were all the stories he had come up with: the world on the other side of some Gate. A world where magic (he called it alchemy) had furthered instead of machines. He'd told the most entertaining tales, but he had, at some points, found himself concerned over the other's sanity. Particularly when he saw the lips turn down and the golden eyes dip towards the earth.

It had taken him a long time to believe Edward. Too long really. If it hadn't been for all the second hand accounts; the soldiers and Union members gossiping about, Eckhart herself…Noah…he probably wouldn't ever have. Or perhaps the dream itself would have eventually prove sufficient to overlay the incredulousness of the entire scenario.

He had, truthfully, been angered at Edward's reluctance, his adamant insistence not to continue with the project. He'd never gotten the chance to explain, but he'd felt that the other should have understood. After all, hadn't he, whether in a dream or in reality, driven for a goal with his entire being, no matter what the consequences were? Hadn't he admitted at some stage (in passing) that he was hoping to get a step closer to home by exploring the possibility of liquid-fuel rocket technology? It had temporarily enraged him how the other hadn't considered the importance of his dream to build that rocket ship and lay his name down into the cement before he died…and then another bout of coughing had overcome him, and the truth had partially slipped out in the form of blood.

Edward, on the third last step from the bottom, stayed frozen in the position the other had pushed him onto as Alfons took his overnight bag and left for the factory.

The next time had been seeing both of their dreams fulfilled, because he knew one thing about Edward Elric. No matter how he pretended, no matter how he tried to brush things off and live a normal life, he was definitely looking for a way home. It had become his dream, just as it had become _his_ to build that rocket. It wouldn't take a lot of persuasion to take that way. And he'd regret it forever (or a very long time) if he did not). He'd watched his dream in all its glory, fired up to go. He'd watched his friend (yes, a friend) depart, onward to home, face eventually turning to face up towards that yellow glow, just as he knew it would…and then there had been a punch in the back, and he was dying…

And yet he had caught a glimpse of grey and white, broken buildings and strange faces he'd never seen before. He'd heard the sound of voices, and a dog barking, and further shouts in the distance.

And now he could feel fresh wisps of air tickling his nostrils and smells that were somewhat unfamiliar, although the scent of smoke lingered still. His breathing was easier, he noticed. The obstruction that had gradually gone had disappeared in a heartbeat. His heart thumped merrily in his chest, albeit tiredly as if worn by an extensive healing process. Some sort of light shone upon his face, greying the darkness behind closed eyelids.

It was a chore opening his eyes. Already, wisps of white were beginning to invade his vision, but he managed to force them somewhat away. The first instance, all he saw was grey and a speck of pink and blue, and then he blinked. Slowly. A hospital room came into focus. The pink was gone. The blue turned out to be a uniform. Not a nurse, or a doctor.

'Where..?' He began in a voice laced with fatigue and dim pain. His body too, he realised slowly, was aching like he had been working too hard and too long and was just beginning to slow down and get back into its normal paces. He took another breath, amazed at the deepness he drew, before changing the train of his question. 'How..?'

His eyelids started to droop again, and then the uniform suddenly made sense. He could see the pins on the man's shoulder, although he couldn't make out the rank. The man in front of him, black haired and bespeckled, was a soldier.

That drove his mind a little closer to awareness. It was enough in any case to drive away the shadows long enough to pay attention for a little while.

'You're in Central Hospital,' the man replied. He deliberately left the second question, hoping it wouldn't be brought up again until someone, preferably one of Mustang's team (it was named as such even when the Brigadier General had resigned his post).

'Central?' Alfons asked.

It sounded somewhat familiar. It took a long moment for his mind to remember why. Perhaps because his handle on consciousness was slipping again. He felt like he'd been drugged with something. Or a co-worker had forced too many beers down his throat.

Edward had mentioned it a couple of times, when telling him stories of his travels and adventures. The capital city, the military command centre, of his country. Amestris if he remembered correctly.

But what was he doing there? If he was in a hospital, it should be in Munich. It should be with heavy lungs struggling for breath…because his end had been approaching with astounding clarity. And he didn't believe in the afterlife. Precious few did after that first bloody and far-reaching war.

'Yes, Central.' There was a pause, before the soldier spoke again. 'Could you tell me your name?'

'Alfons…' The last part came out as a sigh as he lost the battle to keep his eyes open any longer as the light grew ever so slightly brighter. He couldn't help but notice though that the shine was not a blatant yellow, but rather white. Sunlight, he thought to himself sleepily, watching the clouds float behind his eyes. The light seemed purer somehow.

He momentarily forgot all else. Any form of anaesthetic tended to do that. It was of little importance though, in the end. No-one was in any particular rush.

There was a world of time ahead after all.

* * *

><p><span>Post-Author's Notes<span>

Feel free to skip. This is just explaining information mostly.

And we're back to Alfons. I'm hand-waving to his past BTW. Since he's seventeen in 1921, he must have been born around 1904. Reasons: 1, he kind of needs a back-story in this fic, and two, my plan said "wakes up in Central" and that was it, and I needed something to fill the rest of the ~2500/3000 words, considering the next chapter is back to Roy (and Riza I think). That does mean that this chapter mostly turned out to be a filler, but the plot starts moving again next chapter, and hopefully faster.

Guess what (unless you know already)? Alfons' name means "noble and ready" in German. It's derived from Latin. Etzel is another German name. It means "father". So I've named Alfons's father.

Toy magic lantern projector sets were common mechanical toys from very la 1900s

Oberth is a real character who actually did write a thesis on Liquid-Fuel rockets, and there was a man called Wernher von Braun who read his book in 1920 and in 1930 assisted Oberth in liquid-fuel motor tests. In this fic, I've sped that process up, and Braun in this fic is the guy in charge of that factory Alfons (and Edward) worked under in 1921 Munich, simply because the first rocket was launched well after that date (2 were launched by 1934) and that part therefore is not fitting with canon (or canon doesn't fit with the real timeline. Take your pic). Dolcetto was one of the chimeras in Amestris, but he was also one of Alfons' workmates…and part of the whole Aryan stereotype.

The stuff on space…the regular aircrafts wouldn't get someone to space. It was inconceivable…unless someone read Verne…I think he wrote a book on that. I've only read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and the Journey to the Centre of the Earth myself.

The bit about living at an old man's home in the London country-side was derived from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

I'm guessing Germany uses the metric system. Most do. I think. Australia included. Americans (and British?) don't so that's 1.4 miles. Wikipedia info. It was the first rocket launched by von Braun. The second one reached 3.3km/2.2mi.

The pink will be explained in the next chapter. If I forget, remind me because it has to be in that chapter.

The legal drinking age in Germany is 16.

The next chapter will either be early or delayed, because the second half of May marks the final preparation for exam period.


	5. Healing Magics

Author's Notes

This chapter gave me a lot of grief. Thankfully, next chapter's already written…purely by accident. Downside of _that_ is there's a gap in the plan. Sorting it all out. Don't worry.

I'm bringing in the Xingenese Royals, but they're not crossing over from brotherhood, ie. the situation in Xing is non-existent…or rather, it's already been resolved. Ling is the new Emperor. Lan Fan and May don't particularly get along, but they tolerate each other.

Mei Mei means sister in Chinese.

I apologize if any stupid errors made their way in. This hasn't been proofread. I'll come back at some point and do it.

Enjoy.

* * *

><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H& Roy M

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 4<span>

Healing Magics

Sergeant Major Kain Feury gave a start as the boy in front of him uttered his name before lapsing back into the realms of unconsciousness.

'Alphonse?' he repeated, staring at the teen's face.

The blond hadn't managed a surname either, nor would he for a while yet. Not that the soldier could blame him; he didn't know much about alchemy…or the Xingenese equivalent called Alkahestry, but wounds took time to heal. After all, he had been shot in the chest.

Alphonse though…it wasn't a common name by any means. The only "Alphonse" he knew of was Alphonse Elric, the younger brother of the infamous Fullmetal Alchemist. But Alphonse, the last time he had seen the boy, had been twelve. Due to the younger Elric's travels in searching for his elder brother, it was difficult for any one person to keep tabs on him. That was less than a year ago, so assuming his birthday had passed sometime between their last encounter and the current date, he should be thirteen. This boy looked closer to Edward's age, although the face was nothing to speak of. Edward had, after all, faced burdens far heavier than any boy his age…or years older, should have had to. All of them – Mustang's crew that was – had felt somewhat responsible for the pair when they came under their wings. In that sense, he could understand the Corporal's – or Brigadier General as he had been temporarily restored to his former rank – feelings when it came to the long period of wait amidst the eternal snow. None of them understood alchemy…except the Lieutenant Colonel, and he had sorrowfully claimed his trust in the young man who'd abandoned his dream for reasons none of them quite understood and left for Liore, the task entrusted to him by Mustang before his own departure.

But he hadn't given up on his dream after all, or so he claimed. When Havoc and Breda had managed to track the elusive man down, he'd confessed he had simply chosen a different path, reminiscent of the child that had danced upon his toes to grow into adulthood.

It had been rather disappointing to realise he'd missed his chance to say farewell to the Elric brothers, both having returned to the sky with the remnants of the invasion brought to their world. The ship defeated, the walking dead burnt or mowed down by gunfire raining upon them…for a moment, it had been a siege, but it was ended now. All that was left was to recover.

Or it should have been, but it seemed some civilians believed the Military had failed in their job to protect. Perhaps they had been reverted back to trust after a new Fuhrer took the throne and restored peace, opening lines of trade to Drachma, Xing and Aerugo, or the disgruntled fraction had simply been waiting for their chance to take down the powerful State that hovered over them. In any case, several ragged men had already started throwing pieces of their derelict homes at the soldiers who were forced to walk through the warzone…for whatever reason. One had been forced to return to base after a particular projectile caused the vision in his right eye to blur with blood. He'd departed with a light quip: "I guess I'll be joining the Flame and his eye-patch."

Many of the surrounding battalion were grateful Lieutenant Hawkeye was not present at that point in time to witness it.

'Alphonse,' Fuery repeated again, trying to dissect the face of the teen that lay before him. He supposed the boy did look somewhat like Alphonse Elric: the facial features were rather similar, even if the latter appeared older and more worn. It was to be expected though from the age gap. But he had aged too fast too quickly…unless this was another thing about alchemy he was completely ignorant about.

He decided it was time to depart; after all, it was unlikely that _this_ patient would be waking any time soon to answer his questions…and there were others unidentified and taking up almost an entire wing of the main hospital in Central. It was the _only_ hospital in Central if one wanted to be technically accurate; there were a few Doctor's clinics and a Military branch but the former were all privatised and the latter was specific to Military Personnel only…even if the more badly wounded of them also found themselves occupying beds in the main hospital. It was a sore point amongst those citizens in and immediately surrounding Central, since those civilians unable to afford privatised care were left in a bit of a jam. It was one of the things that had only minutely improved; the State Economy had finally stabilised and Doctors were just starting to lower the charges required for their services. A pair of clinics had been talking about combining; the consequence would be their joint practice would be cheaper to run and thus more inexpensive to utilise. But it hadn't happened yet, so all badly wounded and less wealthy civilians were stuck overflowing the Central Hospital.

Why had Mustang assigned him there? Oh yeah, to sort out who belonged where and arrange something for them.

He sighed, before catching sight of a pink shirt-tail vanishing around the corner…before reappearing as he slid the door shut.

The black-haired Xingenese teen blinked shyly at the young soldier. 'Is he…alright?' Her Amestrian was flawless, if a little accented.

Fuery blinked as a black cat-like creature peeked its head around her shoulders, a white patch gleaming within the fur. On closer inspection – or rather, as the creature climbed the braids like a ladder – more white patches were spotted.

'Oh.' The teen noticed the other's stare. 'This is Xiao Mei. My name is Mei Chang, seventeenth Royal Princess of Xing.' She bowed to her waist, and the other suddenly found himself on clumsy footing as she attempted to mimic the action. 'Is he okay?'

'Well…' Fuery managed. 'Yes. Relatively.'

There was a hearty laugh and a boy nearing adulthood slipped out from another closed door. The princess gave him a scornful look, replicated by the woman who followed the late-teen out the door. The latter adorned a mask, but a white bandage could be seen peeking out from under it.

'Emperor,' she murmured respectively. 'It would be wise if we did not dawdle-'

'I'm afraid you'll have to wait,' May cut in, somewhat coolly. 'The Fuhrer seems occupied right now.'

'Oh?' the woman responded in equal coolness. 'How would you know?'

The younger pointed out the window, and the elder immediately slipped away from sight.

The late-teen sighed. 'Must you aggravate her, Mei Mei?'

May smiled a little. 'Of course brother. I'm not the Emperor of Xing and she is not my bodyguard.'

'The Emperor?' Feury repeated, a little faintly and the pair of siblings turned to look at him.

'Oh, my apologies.' The boy suddenly fell into a far more polite manner as he bowed deeply. 'I'm the Emperor of Xing, here on formal business. Ling Yao.'

Fuery bowed again. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was glad he wasn't any older, otherwise his back would have been protesting by that moment.

'And it appears the Fuhrer is indeed indisposed,' Ling noted as the bodyguard leapt down again.

'Indeed.' She sounded vaguely annoyed. 'His council will be ready for us tomorrow; they lack several things, including a cleared space and important documents.'

'Now now Lan Fan,' the Emperor cautioned, sounding more like an older brother than the leader of a country. 'It wasn't as if they planned this earthquake.' He looked around, and then whistled at the crowds that littered the hallways and the waiting rooms. 'My, it appears the entire population of Huang have crowded into this small space.'

Lan Fan shifted restlessly. 'I don't believe it's safe,' she muttered.

Ling raised a hand. 'They've certainly been kind to us,' he protested. 'But perhaps we are overstaying our welcome.'

'It's not that Highness,' the other explained. 'I simply think that many things can be stirred by the shifting of the earth.'

'The earth has shifted,' May said soberly.

'Do not get involved in another country's war,' the body guard cautioned. At the narrowing of eyes, Ling repeated the statement.

'People will die,' May argued.

'People must always die to keep the balance,' the Emperor replied, before turning away. 'Soldier, we will meet with your Fuhrer tomorrow. For now, we will retire.'

'Wait.' The teen stepped away from her company, towards the soldier.

* * *

><p>Lan Fan folded her arms, somewhat crossly. 'What were you doing while I was being looked over?' she asked, staring down the younger woman who looked back at her defiantly.<p>

'You are not my mother,' May responded in equal crabbiness. 'I was healing a few people if you must now. They have little knowledge outside the primitive when it comes to illnesses; gunshots, knife wounds and missing limbs are the only things they know how to treat with any great effectiveness.'

'Be that as it may,' the bodyguard replied. 'Your task is to remain with the company. _Our_ joint task is to settle with the Fuhrer a permanent mode of trade and then to return to our own country, not to merge ourselves in their problem.'

'It's all right Lan Fan,' Ling cut in as the woman made to continue. 'Saving a few lives in the hospital will do no harm. As it was, transferring ideas of Alkahestry and Alchemy is to be discussed at the council at a later date.'

'_Much _later,' Lan Fan pointed out. 'This country is still struggling to remain on its feet. This earthquake will not help.'

'Then we will wait,' the Emperor returned. 'In any case, wait we must. It seems another war is looming over this country.'

May rose a hand to pet Xiao Mei, drawing comfort from the little panda.

'You are still young,' Ling said to his half-sister in a gentle tone, bending to her height. 'But we have our own country to look after, and these people have their own. Trade can only succeed when both parties are not in a state to send their troubles along as well as their profits.

'There will be no change in trade,' Lan Fan concluded, removing her mask to reveal a pale face, beautiful and yet hardened by life. 'Not from this state.'

'We will see,' the other responded. 'Tomorrow.'

May remained silent.

Ling's lips tweaked. 'Did you find a boy?'

She blushed hotly. 'No,' she exclaimed, before amending: 'Well…somewhat. His disease was in the lungs; it was unlike anything I have ever seen before. The disease came away as a black substance with a mass of at least a quarter of that of the lungs. The remaining mass within his body will take a few weeks to readapt into perfect working order.'

'I assume this is what you were explaining to that soldier?' Ling asked while Lan Fan shook her head.

'At least she is efficient in her work,' the woman, to everyone's surprise, muttered under her breath.

'Hey,' the Emperor exclaimed, a little late.

* * *

><p>Fuery cupped his hands under the faucet, collecting the cool water before splashing his face with it. Night had fallen outside and the stars had come out. The crowd had thinned into a more manageable amount and several nurses had collapsed on the plastic chairs from exhaustion. A couple of doctors were seated too, drinking coffee while families said farewell to the more injured of their parties who were forced to remain overnight. The fighting – the arguments, the yells – had faded, leaving everyone weary and in the hopes that a shelter stood in the places they had once called home. The following morning, when they awoke, they would mourn for that which could not be replaced.<p>

His job was mostly done as well. There had been the Xingenese company, who seemed to know where there were going. There had been a few soldiers from the East: those who had chosen to remain from the joint-exercise and were now without their leader; he had checked with a passing Hawkeye who briskly informed him the dorms were repaired to liveable standards. Everything was simply that; care would be taken in later days to fix things back to their proper form. For that night, everyone simply needed a roof over their heads.

There had been several other people. The only mystery that remained was that "Alphonse," but the other was still to awaken.

He'd leave that to the Brigadier General's discretion. Or the Lieutenant Colonel's. And on that note, he would also inform Mustang about the discussion that had taken place a few feet before him…and the little extra he had been eavesdropping on. After all, barring electronics, that was his next best skill: listening. And it came in handy when having a Commanding Officer who made it his business to know every little secret of the world…even when he was burrowing under seven feet of snow.


	6. King in the Middlegame

Author's Notes

I know that at the end of the 2003 anime, it's stated that the Fuhrer's seat is dissolved and an Assembly is formed instead, but I think that not only did it happen to fast, but there are still problems floating around (some admittedly of my own making). As a result, there is still a Fuhrer and they're proceeding slowly along the road to rehabilitation, beginning with Liore which is the only one mentioned so far. Since Grumman's the only one I recognised in that few second snippet, he's the Fuhrer by default.

Most military members are apparently named after military vehicles (surname) so my OC (who isn't important but simply needed to be named) Lieutenant General Cougar is also named as such, after the ACGP Cougar.

I'm not entirely sure about the ranks, so I'm following the list I put up in Six Feet Under. Therefore Major General comes after Brigadier General, and Lieutenant General comes after that.

Funnily enough, I actually wrote this before the previous chapter. A case of revamping plans.

Enjoy. And some feedback please? I was rather surprised no-one had anything to say about the last chapter.

* * *

><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H& Roy M

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 5<span>

King in the Middlegame

Mustang had eventually returned to Central Command as the sun fully sank from the sky, removing the red tint and shading it in a blanket of black, save for the stars that twinkled from the sky. Alchemists had gotten to work repairing the damage; someone'd had the sense to order the street lamps to be repaired first so they could continue to work a little further into the night. Hopefully, with the number, the area would, at the very least, be hazard-free before they all dispelled from duty and returned to their homes or dorms…provided they still stood.

The interior of the building was in a rather good condition, all things considered, although many of the surviving military personnel appeared to be shaken. Considering they'd, just hours ago, fought walking corpses crushed with severe pressure, he couldn't blame them. But it gave the command centre an almost eerie aura.

The front wall was crushed, and most of the offices situated to that face experienced some degree of damage. The upper ones had been completely crushed, including the Fuhrer's. Apart from that, there were a few shattered glass panes on other parts of the main building, and the chaos of the shaking tossing the more fragile ornaments onto the floor. Broken frames, mugs in pieces with coffee spilling over paperwork…oh, the irony of that last example, he thought to himself as he carefully stepped over the bludged papers. He'd done that himself many a time, albeit on purpose, but Lt. Hawkeye simply replaced the stack and gave him a look that prompted him to, without a work, diligently sign his name until his right hand cramped.

Apparently, Sheshka was going to have a lot of work to do as well, as not every lieutenant was as diligent as Hawkeye…and every higher ranked officer wasn't as well known to procrastinating as he had been during his time as a Colonel, so most others didn't get the paperwork duplicated. So it would be up to the brunette's impeccable memory to put them back together.

And to think, it had been Fullmetal who had found her. They were very fortunate to have a woman like her on the staff.

In fact, if truth be told, he was very fortunate to have come across Fullmetal.

Almost subconsciously, both eyes travelled skyward: the one with sight and the blind one. How many times had he stood in a similar position, coated in snow or dry and cracking wear, looking into it seemed the same spot in the sky as if waiting for a boy with golden hair to fall from there? Many times over the past few years. But the little he'd seen of Edward showed he had matured into a man during the years he'd been gone, and by his timely arrival and somewhat _un_timely departure, he had brought the waiting of a lot of people to an end. Not just his.

He couldn't wait for Edward Elric…even if the little voice in the front of his head grumbled the boy still hadn't handed in his report on the situation in Liore. The report was, admittedly, irrelevant in _any_ scheme of things; they'd lost hundreds of soldiers in Scar's transmutation circle after all, and then the Fuhrer had put the word out that the Elric brothers were responsible. He'd of course received the letter beforehand…but he'd never have guessed the reason behind all those events. Not the entire reason anyway; it was Hughes' death that had really highlighted the corruption in the military, or more directly, his phone call. But he'd leant from Ishbal that the path of revenge led a person no-where; he couldn't do what Sheska had wanted of him, and so it was he was forced to turn his back to her tear-streaked face with a cold mask…and similarly to Winry Rockbell's as she pleaded for the life of her two closest friends to the man who had murdered her parents.

From that point of view, he was a very cold man. Here he was, almost farewelling a boy matured into a man that was not only a part of his team but of his heart, and his expression hadn't changed at all. Not a single muscle slipping a pocket of skin out of place.

'Ah, Mustang.'

The gruff voice caused him to spring into a reflexive salute.

'Fuhrer Grumman,' Mustang responded.

'At ease,' the old man replied, rubbing the bridge of his forehead. 'What has you looking so melancholy?'

So maybe his face wasn't as expressionless as he thought…or believed.

The Fuhrer's blue eyes twinkled at him. 'You wouldn't still happen to have the men I gave you, would you?' he asked. 'Mine are unfortunately…indisposed.' A subtle reference to the mess that was currently his office. It was somewhat ironic that the head of the military had taken the brunt of the damage while the subordinates were mostly safe. What was almost typical was the state that was only a few blocks away, slowly being repaired.

He couldn't help but think that if Edward, or even Alfonse (who while was unable to transmute without a transmutation circle due to losing his memories of the Gate), they'd have had Central back on his feet. And they'd probably have uncovered more dead bodies too. Alphonse had mentioned one, a little girl's body crushed a wall of her home, hand reaching out for a teddy-bear splattered in blood. The hazel eyes had still shown the horror of the sight. He had simply nodded in response.

He had almost forgotten about Grumman's question until he met the older man's eyes. The "men" referred to was a chess set they'd used over the years to challenge each other. The last time they had played was during his transfer to Central Command as the turmoil, nudged along somewhat by Scar, had risen to new heights. His record to date against the other was 1 win, 15 draws and 97 losses.

'Would you like to play a game?' the protégé asked in reply. 'I did bring them back with me, yes.'

'I had a feeling you did. Since my office is…in shambles for lack of a better word-' His lip quirked at that. 'Perhaps we can get some interior re-designing done. But in the meantime, we'll have to play somewhere else.'

Mustang wondered if he would have so readily agreed if he had known where the other was planning on leading him, but in terms of space and in terms of conversation.

'I am sure Lieutenant Colonel Armstrong won't mind us using his office.'

* * *

><p>'Tell me,' Grumman said almost conversationally as he set the board, seated comfortably on the couch that the Fullmetal Alchemist had frequently slumped over when the office had belonged to a different Colonel. 'What have you been up to this past few years?'<p>

'Nothing of particular interest,' Mustang replied, seated across from him and accepting the black pawns the other handed him and assisting in the setup. As there wasn't much semblance between 'I was stationed in the far eastern border for a while, and then transferred to an outpost up North.'

'If I recall,' the other pointed out, moving his king pawn two spaces forward. 'You requested that transfer, did you not?'

There was a pause before the Flame Alchemist admitted to the point, nudging his own pawn only a single space in front. The queen's pawn however, not the one in front of the king.

'I did not question your decision then,' the Fuhrer mused aloud, mirroring the move. 'However I admit I was curious…and somewhat relieved.'

Blue eyes met a single grey orb for a fraction of a second before a black-clad knight moved out of place.

'Trade had begun over the eastern border,' Mustang responded. 'I felt…somewhat uncomfortable dealing with the situation.'

'And yet you possess a natural charisma that endears others to you.' The worn lips twisted into a smirk as he shifted yet another pawn. 'Particularly when it comes to woman.'

'Not for a long time…sir.' The king's pawn jumped forward.

'Oh?' He figured he shouldn't be too surprised. 'Well, my granddaughter is still available. I'm sure this is not the first time I've asked you to take her as your First Lady.'

'I'm not sure that would be advisable,' the raven-haired man replied, contemplating his next move. 'I've outlined my reasons before.'

'And I've told you,' the older man replied. 'That your reasons are weak at best. Although perhaps they are more pronounced now.' The Fuhrer dropped his voice. 'Tell me why you resigned your rank as Brigadier General, Mustang.'

'I believe we've been over this before,' Mustang repeated without pause, finally pushing a piece into place with gloved fingers.

Grumman's eyes at that moment appeared to piece the eye-patch over his left eye.

'I don't believe you were particularly truthful about your reasons,' the old man responded. 'Considering the circumstances regarding the…two missing personnel we accounted for at the end of the coup de tat that was apparently administered under your command, one of which was your subordinate the Fullmetal Alchemist and the other of whom was the Fuhrer himself, coupled with the suspicious death of his adopted son, I chose not to pursue the matter, accepting your resignation and reintegration as a consequence of the failed uprising. As did many others, although there were some in rank who were not pleased you escaped with no punishment. Of course…' He stroked his moustache. 'By withdrawing before your trial, and with the added support of not only your subordinates but those of Brigadier General Hughes and men from other divisions as well as the autopsy proving a man with bigger hands than yourself was responsible for the murder of Selim Bradley, there was of course nothing I could do.'

'I must disagree sir,' Mustang replied, in equal quietness, examining the board once more. The last few moves had served to reset the middle game. 'The coup de tat was enough to earn me a place in front of the firing squad. And I was found at the scene of Selim Bradley's murder.'

'As was Colonel Frank Archer,' Grumman pointed out.

'And Lieutenant Hawkeye.'

'There was very clear evidence that the Lieutenant had acted in her defence and yours,' the Fuhrer responded, his expression not changing at the mention of his granddaughter. He wondered if Mustang was aware that the two were one and the same; he knew after all that Riza did not know part of her family was still alive. 'There was the bullet in your eye as well as the account of the MPs. And considering she was your Lieutenant and this presumably acting on your orders, there was never a case against her.' Another piece slid into place as the man folded his arms.

There was a pause as Roy digested that. 'Is it wise?' he asked finally. 'Taking our side on this. There are still enemies in Central after all.'

'But that is not the reason you put yourself in a lonely outpost away from the city.' The blue eyes again attempted to pierce him. 'Your talents would have been of far more use in the city, as you proved today.'

Another piece forged forward.

'I restored your rank as Brigadier General and you said not one word against it,' Grumman said finally as the other failed to answer him. 'You do realise I will not accept your resignation again.'

A wry smile greeted him. 'I admit, with Central under siege from the undead and the glimpse of Fullmetal flying ahead, I had not considered that.' The lips turned downwards following the statement. 'The outpost-'

'Has been given to a man more suited to the task,' Grumman responded. 'He will leave at dawn-break tomorrow. Thankfully, the train-lines were not affected. He is also taking with him a message for the Major General Armstrong. As it is, rebuilding is going to take quite some time due to the shortage of alchemists. Three years, and we still have not restored our ranks.'

'Fullmetal would have had this place right in a jiffy,' Mustang sighed. It was unfortunate that, while his flame alchemy was proficient, other forms of alchemy were rudimentary at best.

'It is a shame,' Grumman replied. 'But he has chosen his path, and his brother is with him. It's a shame the entire family could not stay together.'

Mustang blinked at that. 'Their mother died years ago,' he pointed out. 'And their father has also disappeared.'

Grumman's smile seemed a little too understanding. 'Am I incorrect in assuming you did not consider the pair to be somewhat like your sons? After all, you told me the full version of the events that had occurred on the way to Resembool after all.'

This time the smile was definitely melancholic, and they were both aware of it. 'If I had sons like them, I would never let go.'

'You do have sons like them. Or was I imagining the help you'd been sneaking Alphonse and Miss Rockbell from your outpost. I must admit I was surprised by how far your ears reached.' Grumman's blue eyes twinkled in amusement. 'I was concerned my secrets would soon be cast into the open.'

'Ishbal will never leave a person,' Mustang replied, and in a way that served to begin the conclusion. 'I may be a soldier, and I may have been a soldier then, but the hands that killed in that war were not soldier's hands. There weren't even the hands of an executioner.' He raised a left hand to his eye and said no more on that statement, diverging somewhat instead to the initial topic. 'I didn't use my alchemy from that day until earlier today. I've had too much time to think.'

He closed his eyes, before moving his king. The queen stood still, straight upon the board, oblivious and yet safe to the dangers that surrounded her.

Grumman's eyes eyed the king as it moved. 'You rarely make a move so bold,' he commented lightly. 'Tell me, is this your way of telling me you have changed your goal?'

'Not the goal. The path.' There was a pause. 'I don't need to sit at the top of the world to change it. I'd do better near the bottom.'

'Alchemist be thou for the people,' the Fuhrer commented. 'I take it you are not trying to match the People's Alchemist. You may just start another uprising.'

This time the smirk was genuine. 'I highly doubt we'll find anyone who can match the likes of Edward Elric,' the Flame Alchemist replied.

* * *

><p>The game ended in another draw.<p>

'My, we seem to be losing our touch, don't we?' Grumman commented as he handed the board and its pieces back to Mustang who took it with a slight inclination of his head with thanks. The outer-office was louder now; it had been unoccupied when they had entered but apparently that was not the case now, even if Armstrong didn't appear to be in immediate need of his office.

A smirk greeted him in reply. 'I have won once in 114 matches,' Mustang pointed out. 'And then because you let me win.'

'Now why would I do that?' the Fuhrer asked, opening the door for the other. 'Now, considering the unfortunate demise of Lieutenant General Cougar today, I need someone to head the Eastern Headquarters.'

The Flame Alchemist's lips tweaked slightly towards a frown. 'I-'

Grumman held up a hand. 'I know I still haven't managed to fully weasel an answer from you, and it's probably none of my business, but I am your Fuhrer and I hereby promote you to rank Major General and place you in charge of Eastern Headquarters. Before that though, I'll need to you find Sheshka for me. She can handle the paperwork, along with finding the papers that restored you to your former rank today…and the papers I was supposed to get signed as well.'

For an old bat, he really was very manipulative. Mustang saluted and left the office with barely a glance at its occupants (there was nothing to argue with); he noted Havoc and Hawkeye at their desks. The male winked at him, cigarette dangling from his mouth, but Hawkeye did not shift her focus from the papers in front of her. Their paperwork appeared to be in one piece, elsewise the First Lieutenant had allowed for disaster and had extra copies at a separate and safer location.

'By the way,' Grumman called after him as he turned the handle of the outer office door. 'I hope you're planning on recruiting a few pieces as well, because it seems we'll be in need of this office, considering several unfortunate officers are now without room. I particularly feel it will be more appeasing to my poor back.'


	7. Alphonse and Alfons

Author's Notes

Sorry for the delay. To be honest, I got hooked on to CLAMP and totally forgot. But I had you wonderful reviewers to remind me.

Enjoy…and hope I keep on track with my updates from now on. And hopefully this didn't turn out completely crap. Mostly a filler chapter to link the first five chapters with the next arc.

* * *

><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H& Roy M

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 6<span>

Alphonse and Alfons

Breathing was easier, but in consequence Alfons found it more difficult to pull himself from the realms of sleep. Perhaps it was because he had become used to awaking to the persistent scratchiness of his throat and an urge to spew the phlegm rising, and the new comfort was simply something that could not be abandoned.

However, when something poked his wrist, he decided he did, in fact, need to open his eyes…if only to find out what was disturbing his rest.

It was actually a who; a nurse was changing an intravenous needle on his arm.

For a moment, he blinked drowsily, somewhat annoyed that Edward had managed to succeed in dragging him to a doctor – until reality kicked in. He was in Central. The place he had only half believed in…or had been willing to believe in. Edward's home.

'Edward?' he asked aloud.

The nurse smiled at him. 'So, you're up,' she commented unnecessarily as she withdrew from the bed. 'Hungry?'

Alfons thought about that. 'Not particularly.' He was just drowsy, but no longer markedly fatigued.

'Well,' the lady responded cheerfully. 'You'll probably have more of an appetite at lunch time. Or perhaps dinner; I know nothing about alchemy I'm afraid and do not care to.'

'Uhh…'

'Ah, you're probably wandering where you are,' she pressed on. Evidently, she was quite talkative…and amiable. 'Central 've been quite busy with that mess yesterday too, so a lot of records have been mixed up and I'm afraid we were unable to contact your family –'

'That's okay,' the dirty-blond interrupted. There was a perfectly good reason after all why his family could not be contacted, and it had nothing to do with mixed-up records.

'Julia,' said a calm voice from the door, and the nurse jumped.

'Ah, Colonel Mustang-' She eyed the stars of his shirt. 'I mean Brigadier-'

The man held up a hand and the woman flushed. 'That's quite all right,' he said smoothly. 'I think we've known each other long enough to be past such formalities.'

_Colonel Mustang?_ Alfons thought. He didn't look _quite_ like how Edward had described him. "A pompous power-hungry arrogant jerk," was the words the nineteen year old had used. But there had been an insatiable amount of respect in it, and something else.

If he didn't want all his body parts intact, he would have suggested the other thought of this enigmatic man as a fatherly figure. Of course, it was more likely Edward would have erected his emotional wall and pretend it was nothing of the sort. Even when he talked about his brother, there was a sense of detachment…and yet, the pain in those golden eyes was unarguable.

Somewhere amidst that thought, the nurse had been dismissed and the Colonel's…no, Brigadier General's, face had turned impassive.

'Your name is Alphonse?' he asked, a tad gruffly. Mentally, he wondered how the Gate had managed to screw up so badly. Wasn't it ever going to give the Elrics' a break? 'Where's Fullmetal?'

'Fullmetal?' Alfons repeated, somewhat bewildered as he tried to remember ever hearing the word before. Perhaps Edward had mentioned it…but he told a great many tales about him and his brother, and most of them still didn't fit into the realm of reality. How could someone walk and talk after having holes shot into them for example?

Mustang frowned. 'Alphonse Elric?'

'Ahh…no.' So this man thought he was Edward's brother, whose name was…

Oh, that explained a great deal of the guy's general demeanour…particularly in his presence. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that bit of information; luckily, he was more occupied at the time with a thirst for knowledge.

'Alfons Heiderich,' the dirty blond introduced himself, making to straighten out his form…before wincing and deciding against it.

The military man's lips parted slightly at his predicament and a gloved hand twitched, but other than that he remained as he stood.

'Heiderich,' he repeated. There was little change in the tone, but the unmistakable signs of relief still existed. 'Thank the Gate…'

The German remembered Edward using the same phrase many a times…or variations in which he cursed this "Gate" instead. It was almost like a God…except Edward claimed to be an atheist.

The silence became somewhat awkward at that point.

* * *

><p>Mustang sighed, running a gloved hand through his hair. It was a relief to know the boy before him wasn't Alphonse Elric; when Fuery had first informed him, he'd all but had a heart-attack. After all, the said boy had entrusted him with the future of their world to cross the Gate and be with his brother – all he knew of the phenomenon was there existed an alternate reality on its other side.<p>

Time had, after all, been of the essence. And like all fate-defining days, the following one dragged with agonising slowness.

'You're Alfons Heiderich,' he repeated once more. 'Right. Where do you live?'

'Uhh…' He wondered if he should give his address out so freely, then remembered it probably wouldn't matter as he was in Edward's dream-world. Belatedly, he wondered if this was Noah's doing; her gift had turned out to be true after all. 'Munich.'

'Munich?' This time, Roy was flabbergasted. 'But that's – that's – ' For a moment, coherency left him. 'That's where Fullmetal was,' he finished, somewhat weakly, before smiling wryly. 'Edward Elric.'

Now things made a little sense.

'Edward was my roommate,' Alfons said, somewhat carefully as he closed his eyes. 'I just wanted him to get home. I didn't care about the war.'

'We all did.' Sympathy laced the tone. 'Alphonse wanted his brother back. Ms Rockbell wanted the two boys that ever mattered to her –' He broke off as he remembered his last sight of the girl he'd orphaned. What was she going to do now, with both Elrics gone from her life?

Thank the Gate the girl didn't know alchemy. The world didn't need another incident.

_Or another you_, the little voice in the back of his head commented snidely.

_Shut up_, he returned.

'Edward mentioned a girl named Winry,' Alfons interrupted his thoughts. 'He said she was going to kill him.'

Mustang snorted at that. It was good to know that, in some instances at least, Fullmetal hadn't changed.

'Let me guess,' he said with dim amusement. 'He messed up his automail again.'

'Automail?' the German repeated, before shaking his head. Really, this was all too confusing. Mustang's nest statement however made him rapidly forget that confusion.

'So you're from the other side of the Gate.'

'Gate?'

Mustang shifted his hand to rub his brow. This was going to take quite a bit of explaining…not to mention how the hell they were going to fix this _after_ he'd destroyed the gate on this side. And that was, of course, assuming the Gate on the other side had not been destroyed as well.

'We'll leave that for now,' he sighed.

He wasn't quite sure what he was expecting thereafter, but it wasn't the teen's next statement.

'Perhaps you can explain then why I'm still alive.'

The alchemist couldn't help it. He froze.

* * *

><p>It had seemed like a simple question when it sat upon his lips, but now that it was out in the open, the dirty-blond felt like retracting it. For one, he hadn't expected a man he'd never met to freeze up as he had. Second, now that he reconsidered his statement, it made him sound…well, suicidal.<p>

Which he wasn't. But it was odd being alive after being shot in the chest…on top of a sickness that had been slowly killing him. He'd seen that yellow light after all.

Although he probably should have known better than to believe in "the light at the end of the tunnel".

But he really hadn't been expecting that reaction. Not in the slightest.

'And in Edward's world?' he tried, attempting to shift the conversation slightly…although he did want to know the truth of his survival and could not kid himself otherwise.

'Alkhestary,' the military man finally replied. 'The bullet wound was easily fixed, but the young princess from Xing fixed your lungs with their branch of Alchemy.'

He'd never heard of the first word, but Alchemy was what Edward had mentioned. Magic, he'd always thought of it as. And Edward would growl and vehemently rebuke that, claiming alchemy was a science and no less.

So focused he was on thinking of that, that he almost missed the reply to his second question.

'As for why you're here…I don't know.'

* * *

><p><em> 'As for why you're here…I don't know.'<em>

And he truly didn't. It probably had something to do with alchemy, with the other world…no doubt the Elric brothers would know, but there was no way of getting to them now. Instead, they were gone, swallowed by the sky.

And a boy who wore the face masking Alphonse Elric (more so than his own, four years too young) was in their place. Almost as if filling the void left for that absence.

He found himself, as he left the hospital for Central Command, quite relieved he had never been particularly close to the younger of the two Elrics.

It was always Fullmetal, always Edward.

His eyes slanted slightly as the streets came to life; he'd chosen a time early in the morning so the world would still be half asleep before he arrived at work. At least some of the new paperwork would be completed before the hustle of city-life made it somewhat more difficult to concentrate.

He couldn't help it; he'd been in a remote outpost for two years after all.

But as he walked, he wondered if he should dive further into this mystery. To find out more about the other side of the Gate…if there was a boy who looked just like Alphonse, what else was there? He couldn't believe it was a time difference; Alphonse had told him it was the year 1923. Not enough for family members to inherit a resemblance so close, and Mrs Curtis had "kindly" informed him to their father's situation.

But knowledge, of any sort, was dangerous. Maybe it was best not to know. After all, the Gate was closed. So long as no-one performed a human transmutation again, the two worlds would be separate, with their own wars and their own sorrows. The Elrics were no longer a part of this one; the doppelganger was a final seal for that.

_But,_ he thought wryly, looking at the darkness that remained on the streets. _It is human nature to wish for the unattainable…_

How long would it be, truly, before someone committed the taboo once again?


	8. Civil Unrest

Author's Notes

So much for keeping track. This time it's uni's fault. Practical subjects are fun but very time consuming.

Enjoy.

* * *

><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H& Roy M

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 7<span>

Civil Unrest

Winry enjoyed the lacklustre shine of mechanics from the window. Normally, she would have taken it as a cue to grumble over Edward: the poor condition in which he always returned his automail (which he hadn't even had the audacity to _bring_ with him on the last occasion), the prices she charged (which, despite the Elric brothers' belief, was actually still cheaper than its usual 75% markup – the materials she put into its composition were the best after all, and her effort no less), but current circumstances prevented that. Perhaps it was the fact that she had finally seen him after three years only for him to be snatched away again – and this time for good, she was sure. After all, Al had gone with him, and even those who barely knew the Elric brothers knew the brothers meant the world to each other.

All that was left was the automail craft she had spent a lifetime in perfecting. And her grandmother, friends and the life in Resembool. Her reputation as one of the best automail mechanics in the country, the Convention in Rush Valley that asked for her best – but she'd given her best to Ed. She always gave her best to him.

She wondered if she could still make automail like the one the elder Elric wore with the knowledge that he would never return. But then she pushed up her sleeves and inspected the sub-par designs on display. The sort soldiers had to make do with; located in Central, it was an easier and cheaper fix, but quality was lacking. Rush Valley would have been much more worth their time, but she'd seen many types of people in the military and knew that, so long as control and power was an issue, they would have to suffer from inferior designs and architecture.

Even Ed would be impatient, but impatience was quite low on the hierarchy of Amestris' Military.

And so she entertained herself with the thought and scrutinising the automail from the window, dissecting each imperfect design in her head and making note of anything that stood out from them. For they weren't _complete_ failures; each had its strength and weakness and she gauged them all against her own designs, climbing the rungs of improvement to perfection.

'Need some automail, Missy?' She turned to the speaker, a middle-aged man up to his elbows in grease. 'Nah, you don't look like you're missing any limbs.'

'I'm a mechanic,' Winry responded, scrutinising her peer in trade. 'Are you the one who designed these?'

'Sure am, Missy.' He looked at her curiously; perhaps he was surprised at her youth or appearance. She was still wearing her jacket from the previous day, shaken out to eliminate the dust and particles that had so stubbornly clung. Under that was her usual travelling attire of a blouse and pants not quite to her elbow. The empty case was probably what spoke the loudest; only a trained eye would be able to tell it was equipped to carry such fragile weight.

Not to mention she'd oiled the hinges with automail oil.

'You from Rush Valley?'

Winry shook her head. 'Resembool.' She couldn't blame the other's assumption though; most automail mechanics, particularly the younger ones (and most of those apprentices) hailed from Rush Valley.

'Reesembool,' the man repeated thoughtfully, before snapping his fingers. 'Ah, you must be Rockbell. I've heard about you, down by Garfield's. That preppy girl spoke quite highly of you as well.'

'Paniniya.' Winry nodded; she'd met the girl back when Ed and Al had taken her to Rush Valley for the first time, then again when she'd returned seeking further knowledge about the automail design and industry. Garfield has been the engineer she had worked under the year following, and she'd gained valuable experience, a wider variety of materials to utilise and new customers to accompany her back to the station in Resembool. The extra travel didn't seem to bother them, as she'd seen quite a few for tune-ups since her return. 'I'm Winry Rockbell.' Before waiting for the man to introduce himself, she gestured at one of the arms on display. 'May I see that please?'

Somewhat bewildered, the man granted her request. It took a single flexion for her suspicions to be confirmed. 'The hinge joint is not very versatile.' She gave the lower part of the arm a light twist, wincing at the grating sound that resulted. A soft touch thereafter felt the slight warmth rising from the friction. 'This would be quite painful once the nerves are installed.' She almost got her tools out before catching herself. 'Ah, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be – '

Luckily, the man didn't seem to mind being upstarted by a young female. 'Oh, it's no trouble at all. I'm afraid my skills at automail are sub-par to my father's work.' He bent slightly to get a better look at the hinge. 'What would you suggest?'

'Well…' Winry knelt down and snapped open her case. While the arm and leg she'd hauled from Resembool were no longer within, she still kept her tools at hand. Part had been a lapse in confidence; she hadn't known whether Edward would be found before her work fell apart, or whether the limbs she'd crafted with such care would fit, but even she had been amazed at the results.

She blinked, finding her vision slightly blurry, before extracting the right equipment. 'This sort of design is strong here.' She tapped the midpoint of the hinge. 'But the limb needs to be able to rotate. A quick-fix would be to sander down the edges so they don't slide upon one another, and then fit it with a different casing – ' She easily pried the original away. ' – that covers the elbow area and overlaps a little. The better, more long-term, option would be to redesign this joint, and perhaps where it fits into the upper arm as well…'

Her voice continued on, containing the strength and fragility of youth while carrying simultaneously the wisdom of a professional.

* * *

><p>In the end, the older mechanic had invited the younger inside. He'd introduced himself as Ol' John, his accent becoming particularly pronounced as it rolled upon the title he attached to his own name. It was odd in itself; he was far too young to be considered "old". But, as he explained, people became old rather quickly waiting in a place like Central.<p>

'Particularly with the break-in at Central HQ,' Ol' John said cheerfully. 'That was…what? Two years ago? Three?'

Winry remembered. She said nothing though, letting the man chatter on as she fiddled around with the arm still.

That was until the man shoved a wad of bills at her of course.

She blinked blankly, before shaking her head. 'I-'

'There are a lot – by usual standards anyway – of people who lost their limbs yesterday,' the older mechanic explained carefully. 'Some of them are poor enough to barely afford the price of living in a city like this, but they'll scrape the money, beg favours, whatever – so they can stand up again and move on with their lives, grasping new opportunities. It's far better than those out in the villages and slums. Those who can't afford automail at all and have to crawl along on their stomach to survive.'

The smile was still on his face but his eyes were grave.

'The material is cheaper here because a lot of it recycled. Military stuff mostly. Not like out in the country-places where the minerals and metals are mined and polished. So the automail is cheaper too. Admittedly, us engineers aren't quite as great as some others out there either.' He rubbed the back of his head. 'Some don't even try. But I do.' He shrugged. 'People need money to live, but my wife teaches, so even with the tax the military charges, we get by.'

That statement perked Winry's curiosity and she looked carefully around. It didn't take her long to discern the hidden meaning behind "getting by". The shop was well kept certainly, but it seemed…weak somehow. A far cry from the numerous shops lining Rush Valley. Or from their houses in Resembool, spaced out and reaching for four walls and the sky.

Maybe it wasn't just the earthquake…or the attack. To think such conditions existed in Central, the heart of Amestris. But then again, she'd only been to the Military Barracks, the butcher (a shiver ran down her spine at _that_ memory) and the apartment in which the Hughes' family lived.

But the man was smiling again, picking up the arm that lay abandoned. 'Show me?' he asked.

Winry fingered the metal, before nodding. She determinately ignored the money though; she didn't need it. Resembool wasn't exactly an expensive area to live in; nature's elements provided well for them and the combined automail work between grandmother and granddaughter had built up quite a reserve. But arguing wasn't going to get her anywhere.

So she simply smoothed gears and continued coaching.

* * *

><p>It was about ten in the morning when the city awoke with a clatter and a bang. Winry blinked from the leg she'd substituted for a perfectly functional arm and turned to the street.<p>

Ol' John looked as well, before standing abruptly and locking the door. It took a little longer to hide the windows; some were broken, but only the main display had a curtain to draw over the street. Even with scrap material and tape, slivers of a collecting crowd were visible.

'You'd best stay here till the noise dies down,' the man frowned, taking his seat in a fashion that suggested he was older than his appearance…or that the years had been unkind to him.

The clashes and bangs continued out of sight, accompanied with various shouts.

'What's going on?' Winry asked, slightly apprehensively. The sounds didn't sound particularly familiar; the closest was the drama about the Ishbalan slums. The riot that had begun to rise.

'A riot,' Ol' John answered, looking rather nervous himself. 'The Military promised a change; the people got tired waiting for it.'

'They've been trying,' the blonde defended. 'They've started rebuilding Liore.'

'And a few other places.' The man nodded. 'But not everyone sees those places as ones that are in more dire need. People want an end; they want to see results. After the fall of Bradley, I thought things would turn better, but even though the Fuhrer's much more popular with the lower-class people, he has a lot of enemies high up. Rumours, little scrimmages – everything ties the Military in place, and an invasion on home soil like that and enemy soldiers looking like the living dead? That's a real confidence killer.' He snuck another look as new voices entered the fray. 'Come with me to the back rooms.'

Winry followed quietly. She recognised a voice. Rather vaguely though. The Military had been rather quick on the uptake. The sounds of shout and clashes followed, but there was no tell-tale explosion or rounds being fired into living flesh and she sought comfort in that knowledge.

People could die – could be dying. Or they could be simply yelling at each other like immature little brats.

For once in her life, she was glad to be ignorant. Glad to not know what went on outside – until one final voice saw her out of hearing range. Raised; bellowing really, and oh so familiar…

And she didn't know how she should feel to hear the voice of Roy Mustang.

'What is it Missy?' Ol' John asked. His tone suggested nothing but a child's curiosity but his eyes told a different tale: one of worry.

'That was – 'Winry began.

'You know him?'

It was to be expected, she supposed, that someone hailing from the countryside like her knew people in the Military.

'He killed my parents,' she responded softly, the barest traces of tears beginning to form around her lids. 'And saved my brothers more than once.'

There was silence after that; the back room was far from the noise, built like a bunker within which one could shelter from any sort of disaster.

'He must be a good man,' Ol' John responded finally. 'In a bad spot.'

'Yeah…I suppose that sums it up.' Her vision blurred ever so slightly, but the tears made no move to escape.

'And you must be a strong young lady.'

A blink vanished the salty pools forming. He smiled at her reassuringly, and it only took a moment of contemplation for her to give a small return.

A small click by her elbow alerted her to the fact that she still carried the automail leg.


	9. Central Command

Author's Notes

Why have so many of my fics slipped into statis? *sigh*

Blame a certain character for the delay in this chapter. He just didn't want to die, even if it was for the greater good of the story.

Enjoy.

* * *

><p><span>In the Midst of a Dream World<span>

Alfons Heiderich is shot in Munich. When he wakes up in the middle of what looks like a war, the first thing he thinks is that he's failed. In fact, that's the second thing he thinks too. Post CoS/Slightly AU on tech.

Alfons H& Roy M

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 8<span>

Central Command

Mustang's current home was small and close to Central Command, but that was about all that could be said in its favour. It was plain; in fact, most would hesitate to label it a "home" for what comfort existed within it? A bare couch was all he owned in it; he hadn't remained in Central long enough to purchase a bed. First had been cleaning up after that whole Scar incident, and then there'd been the riot in Liore followed up by the removal of Bradley, after which he'd transported himself to the most remote outpost he could find once fully recovered.

Actually, that was a lie. The socket beneath his eyepatch was hollow and scarred; some of that could have been avoided for the removal of his eye with the bullet still embedded had been clean and efficient. The scarring had been a result of the cold assaulting the new skin that had germinated in its place; in all retrospect he should have stayed longer to avoid the scarring, the swellings that had occurred and the pus that had oozed out after a week. He had enough medical training from the military to know an infection and frostbite when he saw them; he had made to deal with the former with a snap of his fingers, but before the glove even touched his fingers he felt his eye burning…

Eventually, he had put the gloves safely away and brought a patch of matches. The irony had not been lost on him: the famous Flame Alchemist doing menial house warming (in the literal sense naturally) with a box of matches. And it had been so awkward striking a match outside the heat of battle (which he had learnt to tolerate simply because his weakness in the rain was too well known) that he had wasted a good few before getting the fire alight.

Even then, it was a small and pathetic fire, incapable of doing anything but providing the slightest of warmth. At the beginning, even a sheet of newspaper, discarded from annoyance or some other emotion, stifled the fire instead of kindling it. He got better with practise though, but the flame was never as ravenous as the one he could conjure with a snap of his fingers…and that was a mercy to him, who had killed so many people with the same snap of the fingers.

It had been different – though not very – before knowing the truth about Bradley. At least then he thought he had done it for the sake of his people. For their safety. For their prosperity. For their livelihood. Because he was following orders from the higher ups, who were in turn following orders from those higher…and at the top of that chain stood the Fuhrer himself: King Bradley. It was he who had signed the paper that had brought the State Alchemists into the war. It was he who had ordered the research and experimentation on the red stones, to allow the State Alchemists participating in the war – no, extermination – of Ishbal to bypass the laws of equivalent exchange and kill without hindrance. The knowledge that all of it had been to sow the seeds for the Philosopher's Stone broke that safety-lock, so to speak.

The cold froze his fire. It numbed his nightmares too, and he was well content to spend his days standing in the cold and without thought…for a time. But time was not one to sit still, and always, the warmth came. The snow thawed out when he went indoors and lit a fire. News came from the outside world that opened his eyes. Whispers came…and once, Alphonse Elric himself in his brother's clothes and looking so eerily like Fullmetal that Mustang had all but run to him in a childish glee.

Thankfully, he'd had enough warning to not show that behaviour to the real Edward Elric when they next met.

It was Edward who made him pick up his gloves again. It was Edward who made him return to Central. Roy thought it almost a shame Edward had never set foot in his apartment; he would have probably done something about that too. But there were times, particularly at night, where an empty apartment was highly advantageous. That way, when he stumbled about in the aftermath of a nightmare, it was not to gain a stubbed toe at the end of it.

And in the mornings, it was very easy to find his work-related things, so there was rarely a risk of leaving some important paper behind. Unless there was a crisis of course, which was how the Major General found himself on his hands and knees, coughing dust and going through a stack of papers. It was times like that where he wished he had a table…or at least brought along the one which had come with his quarters at the Northern Outpost. That way he wouldn't look so degraded if someone walked in.

If only someone _would_ walk in. Roy sighed, picking up the stack and dumping them on the couch instead before tackling them in a more organised manner. Hawkeye always knew how to keep his paperwork – and himself – straight. He could well understand though why his ex-Lieutenant was peeved at him. Leaving like that with no explanation…

She was a far stronger person than he was. That he had to admit, and he had little problem admitting it too.

He finally found the paper the Fuhrer had asked for and slipped it into a folder with other odds and ends he needed for the day. Luckily, Grumman had been more than happy to let him have his old staff back, so he wouldn't have to worry about establishing command over a new lot and putting up with, most likely, remarks of his previous placement.

But that thought changed once he had left the apartment and started the trek to Central.

* * *

><p>Roy owned a car, a white box on four wheels unlike the sleek black military vehicles, but he really only used it for the occasional personal thing…or emergencies. Elsewise his status earned him a military vehicle and a driver. Typically Havoc or Hawkeye. And his place was close enough to Central Command to walk without any trouble.<p>

Except someone had failed to tell him there _would_ be trouble. Namely, the unrest from civilians tired of waiting for a change.

The first sign was the clatters and bangs that came down the street, prompting shops to suddenly sprout "closed" signs and many a person to simply vanish. The second sign were the angry shouts that came closer. The third was a gunshot in the air.

He moved towards the chaos, finding several lower-ranked officers attempting to subdue a horde of civilians. The officers were all in military uniform but lacking the stars that gave them superiority, so it certainly didn't seem like a case of arrogant display and flaunting of military power…which occasionally happened despite the shift to the more democratic regime. Military still held quite a bit of ruling power; it would take a long time – and trial – before there was a military-free government ruling Amestris.

But the Military couldn't just turn over and play dead in the current state of affairs. The country was struggling on many levels. Layers of corruption needed to be weeded out, things that had gone unchecked or prompted during the regime of the Homunculus Pride as Fuhrer. All things considered, Grumman was doing a good job considering their lack of manpower and the internal problems. After the initial coup de tat there had been many smaller and less successful insurgents, some facilitated by those who wanted the more fragile Fuhrer position for themselves and others who agreed with the war-emphasised military regiment and less with the democracy. For all of this Mustang had been as far away as one could get while retaining ties with the military, but still the news came to him, brought by one of his men if not by the newspaper print.

Then there was the unrelated disaster of the Gate's opening, creating the after-effect of an earthquake ravaging not only Central but Liore and several other places as well. Not to mention the initial rebuilding of Liore and Ishbal after their own military tore them apart. Naturally, there were other places, some in better condition thanks to others simply because of Fullmetal (Youswell was a prime example of that) and others who simply hadn't come to the stage of total annihilation. Still, there were a fair number of places raked to the ground that needed rehabilitating, and others close enough to which they lacked the manpower or alchemic power to accomplish anything.

Not to mention that mess in creating the Philosopher's Stone. Over a hundred unaccounted for officers of the military; there were a few within the large white walls who still believed the Elric brothers to be traitors. Naturally, as the Hero of the People, the majority of civilians protested violently to the sentiment, however at least the small fraction against Fullmetal were smart enough to keep their mouths shut on things that no longer mattered.

Hell, he (or Envy) could call him a pipsqueak as many times as he wanted, and Edward wouldn't be yelling and screaming and ranting at them anymore because there was simply no way he would hear. Not that there was any reason to tease anymore; Fullmetal had proven himself to be a man beyond most others he had had the pleasure of meeting.

And he _was_ grateful Edward wasn't dead…like another good man.

But the rest of the world wasn't made up of such people. Selfishness was a quality that ran strongly in far too many, and short-sightedness was another. The patch on his right eye felt scratchy and he raised a hand to scratch it, sighing at the irony of it all. Half blinded, he now saw certain things he never had before.

Central had always been the place to be in Amestris, unless you were crazed about something in particular, like Winry Rockbell and automail. Even the lure of alchemy brought aspiring alchemists to Central, offering something the peaceful countryside never could. But the countryside wasn't so peaceful. Resembool, so far east, had suffered under the military even before the Elric brothers had come into contact with him. The Rockbell's deaths – murder – in Ishbal…and even before that, the whispers of a mysterious man who knew more about alchemy than any other in the world.

It was more than simple curiosity that had lead him to the Elric's doorstep, and he had gained so much he could never regret what he had done, what doors he had opened. And he had been right, in what he had seen – with both eyes – in those sunken eyelids hiding golden eyes and the bandages soaked in blood and hiding two missing limbs.

He had never thought to look more closely at the people he was around on a less…professional level. No doubt he'd flirted with a handful of these women. Maybe he'd even slept with a few of them in the prime of his life. Before he had been transferred out east.

Now he could see their dissatisfaction, their hardened anger. And, after stopping and staring a little longer, he could also see a hollowness that didn't seem to fit with Central's wealthy image.

Still, the economics of the country was hardly the most pressing problem, with buildings that still need repaired and people that still needed rescuing, healing and returning. Foundations that need resurrecting. Affairs that needed straightening. It was hardly the time to be thinking about the tightness of boots.

A fleeting part of him wondered as to the timing, but then he reconsidered. Small changes inevitably paved the way to larger thoughts. Just like small desires pave the way to larger ones.

The poor Sergeants looked as though they had no idea what they were dealing with. No doubt they were fresh out of the training school and about as unprepared for the real world as a dog let out of his basket. Sadly, no-one had gotten around to changing the towering Amestrian flag into something democratic, nor had the pocket-watches undergone any particular changes (except new ones being flattened to prevent someone sneaking in substances after an angry tip apparently originating from Fullmetal had finally reached the top). So the term "Dog of the Military" still stuck quite firmly.

Even more sadly, the best way to get attention, barring a gunshot or a snap of his fingers (which were more dangerous than most other snaps because of his gloves and alchemy), was to whistle. Like calling a dog to heel – unless the dog happened to be Black Hayate, and the master happened to be Riza Hawkeye.

Regardless, he whistled and the noise and clatter momentarily paused. The Sergeants looked relieved; the civilians on the other hand were on the whole not too pleased. A few recognised him, but he had lost his youthful charm with his right eye. If Ishbal hadn't turned him into ice inside, Pride had.

The stars on his shoulder spoke the same. One shiny and new, hurried to him by Sheska before he left Central Command for the night. "On Fuhrer Grumman's orders," she explained, giving him a small smile before hurrying off again. Friendly as always – except when she had accused him of giving up on his best friend – but rather harried as soldiers left and right were asking her to regenerate lost paperwork.

For Sheska, it was a very good thing the records department and its typewriter had gone undamaged. However the shininess of the new star was probably just adding a little extra oil to the fire.

Mustang rubbed his temples; this was one part of his job he hated. The people deserved a voice, and this would be the third major occasion in which he was shooting it down. Still, left unchecked they could turn into riots and then into Civil Wars, and in no time they would have another Ishbal or Liore on their hands.

'Sergeants.' He raised his voice so he could be heard as the shouts started up again. As a Major, and then a Lieutenant Colonel in the field and finally a Brigadier general before the insurrection, he had plenty of practice. 'Back to your jobs.'

'But –' one began, before eyeing his uniform and the stars of rank it held, and quickly snapping to salute. 'Yes sir.'

The other only did the latter, and both of them hurried off, with as much dignity as they could manage to put into fleeing from an ugly situation.

It would have been nice to have some backup. Heck, it would have been nice to not have to deal with the issue, period. But there was no escaping such matters. They followed him, even all the way to the northern outpost in a blizzard.

'Silence,' he cried, holding up a hand. It wasn't gloved, but the other hand was in his pocket, fixed with habit and waiting.

Most fell silent. Some backed away slightly. They saw his eye-patch. They saw the bit of white glove sticking out of his pocket. The civilians weren't blind – not with only one eye and strained at that like him. And some of them had been in Central far longer than he. They may not have known the two Sergeants, but they certainly knew him. Or his reputation.

Chances are most of them didn't know about his whereabouts the past three years. Funny how the whispers of him killing King Bradley never made it past Military walls.

But not all were frightened of dead shadows. Still, the sight of him, the great war-hero of Ishbal, caused people outside the affected epicentre to flare up. People who sought a better life. People who sought an outlet for their dissatisfaction.

Better someone with a face than someone without after all.

'Are you going to burn us to a crisp if we argue with you, Flame Alchemist?'

Mustang went rigid, but before he could muster any sort of reaction to that – and only the Gate knew what sort of reaction that would have been – the sound of a terrific explosion sent them all turning towards Central Headquarters, where the symbol of Amestris and the newly repaired Fuhrer's office lay in a pile of dust and rubble.


End file.
